m 
•m 


1 


I        THE 

I  LEATHER 
|  PUSHERS 

|    H.C.WITWER. 

9 


THE 
LEATHER  PUSHERS 


BY 

H.  C.  WITWER 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

TTbe  Umicfeerbocfeer  press 

1921 


Copyright,  1920 

by 
P.  F.  Collier  &  Son  Co. 

Copyright,  IQ2I 

by 
H.  C.  Witwer 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Be&tcatefc  to 

HARFORD  POWEL,  JR. 

"Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend." 

— H.  C. 


2054746 


PRELUDE  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

As  a  result  of  the  wide  publicity  given  the  half- 
million-dollar  purse  paid  Messrs.  Dempsey  and  Car- 
pentier  for  a  twelve-minute  exhibition  of  assault  and 
battery,  prize  fighting  has  driven  the  cleaner  and 
healthier  sports  momentarily  out  of  the  limelight. 
It  is,  perhaps,  not  to  be  wondered  that  many  a  strap 
ping  young  collegian,  poring  over  his  studies,  sighs 
reflectively  and  allows  a  tentative  hand  to  stray  to  his 
biceps.  As  opposed  to  the  inevitable  grind  at  meager 
pay  before  success  comes  at  law,  medicine,  business, 
any  of  the  arts  or  sciences,  the  prospect  of  getting  half 
a  million  dollars  within  a  couple  of  years  for  a  few 
minutes'  exhibition  of  the  "manly  art"  is  extremely 
alluring.  That  the  vast  majority  of  professional 
bruisers  batter  or  get  battered  into  disfiguring  insensi 
bility  week  after  week  for  a  few  dollars,  that  the 
average  paid  boxer  is  "through"  long  before  thirty- 
five,  and  that  most  of  them,  even  ex-champions,  die 
destitute  and  forgotten,  is  seldom,  if  ever,  stressed  by 
the  prize-fight  enthusiast. 

According  to  its  admirers,  prize  fighting  develops 
physical  and  moral  courage  to  the  highest  degree,  even 
implants  self-respect,  good  sportsmanship,  and  a  sense 
of  fair  play  where  those  elements  have  been  lacking, 
and,  in  a  word,  is  at  all  times  a  most  edifying  and 
character-building  spectacle. 


vi  PRELUDE  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

A  notable  example  of  the  latter  was  furnished  last 
July  at  Toledo,  when  Dempsey  pounded  the  blood- 
covered  and  half -conscious  wreck  of  Willard  from  one 
side  of  the  ring  to  the  other,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  chorus  of  such  typically  sportsmanlike  expressions 
as  "Kill  the  big  bum !"  As  to  the  physical  and  moral 
courage  inculcated  by  the  prize  ring,  I  have  seen  pun 
ishment  assimilated  in  an  intercollegiate  football  game 
that  would  make  the  average  prize  fighter  jump  out  of 
the  ring.  For  the  moral  courage,  glance  at  the  war 
record  of  the  pugilists  as  a  class.  The  majority  of  our 
own  "fighters"  went  on  the  "See  America  First!" 
principle,  and  many  from  other  countries,  particularly 
England,  slipped  over  here  and  stayed  bomb-proof 
during  the  recent  unpleasantness.  Naturally,  there 
were  individual  exceptions.  A  few  American  boxers 
saw  service  in  France,  and  Carpentier  himself  won 
honors  as  an  aviator,  but  I  am  sure  that  was  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  those  men  were  professional  maulers 
and  not  because  of  it.  Again,  a  perusal  of  the  pro 
fessions  of  those  who  were  commended  for  extraor 
dinary  bravery  in  action  will  show  clerks,  bookkeepers, 
salesmen,  farmers,  etc. — few,  if  any,  prize  fighters. 
Our  most  decorated  doughboy,  Sergeant  Yorke,  was 
a  minister. 

The  American  Legion  was  very  much  exercised  over 
the  recent  Dempsey-Carpentier  bout,  on  the  ground 
that  Dempsey,  the  war-time  shipbuilder,  should  not 
have  been  permitted  to  represent  America  as  its  "great 
est  fighter."  Without  going  into  the  merits  of  this 
viewpoint,  when  one  thinks  that  Dempsey,  who  never 
got  nearer  France  than  the  Newark  (N.  J.)  Bay  Ship 
yards,  got  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  fighting 


PRELUDE  BY  THE  AUTHOR  vii 

one  man  a  few  minutes  with  a  pair  of  eight-ounce 
gloves  and  that  the  average  doughboy  got  thirty- 
three  dollars  a  month  for  fighting  a  couple  of  million 
men  for  a  year  with  a  bayonet,  it  is  not  hard  to  sympa 
thize  with  those  indignant  ex-members  of  the  A.  E.  F. 
— thousands  of  whom  are  jobless  and  recovering  from 
grievous  wounds. 

The  impression  of  one  who  by  some  years  of  actual 
experience  has  accumulated  a  little  first-hand  knowl 
edge  of  the  sordid  atmosphere  surrounding  modern 
professional  pugilism  (not  amateur  boxing) — an  ad 
mirable  exercise  and  a  vastly  different  sport — is  that 
it  is  a  great  thing  to  keep  away  from.  It  is  no  more 
conducted  with  the  idea  of  improving  the  breed  of 
the  genus  homo  than  present-day  horse  racing  is  de 
voted  to  the  improvement  of  the  breed  of  the  horse. 
To  the  young,  clean,  husky  youth  who  is  regarding  a 
career  in  the  prize  ring  with  a  contemplative  eye,  I 
would  suggest  a  ringside  seat,  not  at  a  championship 
battle,  but  at  some  of  the  bouts  between  second-  and 
third-raters,  where  he  would  naturally  begin  his  own 
apprenticeship.  Let  him  observe  the  contestants  and 
their  "handlers,"  listen  to  the  supervile  admonitions  or 
expletives  hurled  at  a  battered  loser  by  the  crowd, 
absorb  some  of  the  general  atmosphere — and  then 
make  his  choice. 

H.  C.  W. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ROUND  ONE 
"  THROUGH  THE  LOOKING  GLASS  "...        3 

ROUND  TWO 
"  WITH  THIS  RING  I  THEE  FED!  "     .        .        .30 

ROUND  THREE 
PAYMENT  THROUGH  THE  NOSE   ....      59 

ROUND  FOUR 
A  FOOL  AND  His  HONEY 86 

ROUND  FIVE 
THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREWD    ....     107 

ROUND  SIX 
WHIPSAWED!       ...  ...     137 

ROUND  SEVEN 
YOUNG  KING  COLE 162 

ROUND  EIGHT 
HE  RAISED  KANE 186 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ROUND  NINE 
THE  CHICKASHA  BONE  CRUSHER  212 


ROUND  TEN 
WHEN  KANE  MET  ABEL 246 

ROUND  ELEVEN 
STRIKE  FATHER,  STRIKE  SON  !    .  279 

ROUND  TWELVE 
JOAN  OF  NEWARK 312 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

ROUND  ONE 
"THROUGH  THE  LOOKING  GLASS" 

ME  and  Cockeyed  Egan  was  tourin'  "God's  Own 
Country"  (Russian  for  the  West),  where  the  natives 
would  rather  be  Harold  Bell  Wright  than  be  president, 
each  with  a  stable  of  battlers,   pickin'  up   beaucoup 
sugar  by  havin'  'em  fight  each  other  over  the  short 
routes,  when  Kane  Halliday  skidded  across  my  path. 
Besides  Beansy  Mullen  and  Bearcat  Reed,  a  coupla 
heavies,  I  had  a  good  welter  in  Battlin'  Lewis,  and 
Egan  had  K.  O.  Krouse,  another  tough  boy,  which 
made  up  a  set.    Them  last  two  babies  mixed  with  each 
other  more  times  a  month  than  a  chorus  girl  uses  a 
telephone,   "without  either  gaining  a  decided  advan 
tage,"  as  the  newspapers  innocently  remarks.     They 
was  steppin'  out  with  each  other  about  four  times  a 
week,  playin'  a  different  burg  each  night,  and  every 
thing  was  jake  till  K.  O.  Krouse  shook  a  mean  dice 
and   win  $28   from   Battlin'   Lewis   on   the   ways   to 
Toledo,  where  we  had  'em  scheduled  to  go  twelve  fast 
rounds  to  a  draw.     Lewis  broods  and  mutters  over 
that  for  the  balance  of  the  railroad  ride  and  knocks 


4  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Krouse  dead  in  the  first  frame  that  night.  On  ac 
count  of  this  cuckoo  forgettin'  he  was  a  box  fighter, 
and  therefore  not  supposed  to  get  mad,  we  lose  five 
other  bouts  we  are  signed  up  for  with  Krouse,  which 
outa  petty  revenge  refused  to  fight  my  boy  any  more. 
Cockeyed  Egan  is  all  for  goin'  back  to  New  York,  be 
cause,  as  he  says,  if  they  have  took  wrestlin'  bouts  off 
of  the  list  of  felonies  there  again  they  certainly  oughta 
stand  for  the  Krouse-Lewis  act,  where  the  boys  is 
positively  guaranteed  to  try  in  the  last  second  of  the 
final  round,  anyways! 

I'm  just  puttin'  a  handful  of  the  hotel  towels  in  my 
suit  case  on  account  of  you  never  can  tell  when  they 
will  come  in  handy,  when  a  bell  hop  appears  at  the 
door  and  makes  me  a  present  of  the  followin'  cable : 

Guarantee  you  thousand  Cleveland  Bearcat  Reed  vs. 
One-Punch  Loughlin.  Wire  if  right.  DUMMY  CARNEY. 

Now,  this  One- Punch  Loughlin  looked  like  the  next 
heavyweight  champ  to  the  disrobed  eye  right  then. 
He  had  clouted  his  way  through  the  rest  of  the  large 
boys  like  Dewey  went  through  Manila  Bay,  and  his 
knockout  record  sounded  like  the  first  two  pages  of  the 
phone  book.  Dummy  Carney  was  his  manager,  and 
him  wirin'  me,  instead  of  the  club  doin'  it,  was  the 
office  that  friend  Dummy  had  somethin'  cooked  up. 
Sendin'  Bearcat  Reed  into  a  ring  with  this  rough 
Loughlin  person  was  like  enterin'  a  armless  wonder  in 
a  bowlin'  tourney.  If  Loughlin  was  try  in',  my  battler 
wouldn't  have  a  chance  if  they  let  him  climb  through 
the  ropes  with  a  ax  in  each  hand ;  but  for  a  guarantee 
of  a  thousand  fish  I  would  let  Bearcat  Reed  box  five 
starvin'  lions  and  a  coupla  irritated  wildcats  in  the 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  5 

middle  of  the  jungle !  I  wired  Dummy  Carney  "Sold !" 
grabbed  the  Bearcat,  and  lammed  for  Cleveland.  On 
the  en  route  the  sacrifice  wants  to  know  how  much 
they  is  in  this  fracas  for  him.  Up  to  that  time  the 
Bearcat  had  the  idea  that  the  only  guys  in  the  world 
which  eat  regular  was  Al  Vanderbilt  and  Jack  Rocke 
feller. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "you  oughta  grab  about  three  hun 
dred  men  for  your  end.  That's  if  you  can  keep  from 
kissin'  the  rosin  for  a  coupla  rounds.  But,  of  course, 
they  is  no  use  speakin'  of  the  impossible !" 

"Three  hundred  for  me?"  he  hollers,  leapin'  up  in 
the  seat.  "Say — who  am  I  gonna  fight,  the  Marines  ?" 

"Look  here,  stupid,"  I  says.  "Never  mind  worryin' 
about  who  you're  gonna  battle — you  don't  see  it  both- 
erin'  me,  do  you  ?  You're  the  most  selfish  guy  I  ever 
heard  tell  of !  I  gotta  be  sittin'  up  night  and  day 
gettin'  tramps  for  you  to  trim,  wearin'  my  fingers  to 
the  bone  signin'  contracts,  gettin'  a  occasional  line  of 
hooch  about  you  in  the  papers,  and  the  etc.,  and  all 
you  gotta  do  is  put  on  a  pair  of  nice  white  trunks,  step 
through  the  ropes,  take  a  pastin',  and  get  paid  off. 
Pretty  soft  for  you!  Suppose  I  had  signed  you  to 
fight  the  Marines — as  long  as  you  get  the  sugar,  what 
do  you  care?" 

"All  right,"  he  grins,  pattin'  me  on  the  shoulder, 
"don't  get  sore.  Tell  them  babies  they  gotta  leave 
their  bay 'nets  in  the  dressin*  room  and  I'll  take  a 
chance !" 

Dummy  Carney  met  me  at  the  train  in  Cleveland 
and  gimme  the  works.  One-Punch  Loughlin  was 


6  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

gonna  let  the  Bearcat  stay  the  limit  if  he  hadda  hold 
him  up,  and  then  we  was  all  goin'  to  Philly  for  a  re 
turn  bout  a  month  later,  which  Dummy  would  properly 
work  up  and  at  which  Loughlin  would  flatten  the 
Bearcat  without  no  more  further  formalities.  The 
second  melee  would  be  level,  as  Dummy  figured  the 
Bearcat  was  too  much  of  a  ham  to  be  worth  while 
savin'  for  any  more.  For  this  last  fray  I  was  guar 
anteed  $1,500  for  the  Bearcat's  end,  and  I  never  seen 
a  thin  dime  of  it,  because  the  second  fight  never  come 
off.  Bearcat  Reed  steps  through  the  ropes  at  Cleve 
land,  squints  across  the  ring,  and  sees  his  comin'  vis- 
a-vis  just  climbin'  up  and  bowin'  to  the  wild  applause. 
Up  jumps  the  Bearcat. 

"One-Punch  Loughlin,  hey?"  he  yelps.  "Nothin' 
stirrin' !  Why,  this  guy  would  tear  my  head  off ! 
What  d'ye  mean  by  throwin'  me  in  here  with  that 
baby  ?  You  claimed  this  would  be  a  spread  for  me !" 

"Shut  up,  you  dumbbell!"  I  hisses.  "We'll  fight 
this  guy.  He  ain't  gonna  try  and — " 

"Where  d'ye  get  that  we  stuff  ?"  sneers  the  Bearcat. 
"You  mingle  with  him — I'll  watch  it!"  and  he'd  of 
ducked  through  the  ropes  if  I  hadn't  grabbed  him. 

"Listen!"  I  whispers  in  his  ear.  "If  you  crab  this, 
I'll  stick  a  knife  in  you  the  first  time  you  come  to 
your  corner !  We're  gonna  fight  Loughlin  a  world 
series,  and  this  one  to-night  is  only  a  stall  for  the  real 
sugar,  get  me?  Loughlin's  gonna  be  under  wraps  all 
the  way,  and  all  you  gotta  do  is  make  a  showin'.  Tear 
outa  your  corner  like  you're  gonna  bite  his  nose  off,  git 
mad  and  make  faces — know  what  I  mean?  If 
you  make  this  look  good  to-night,  you  drag  down 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  7 

five  hundred  bucks  for  your  next  start.     How  'bout 
that?" 

"This  guy  will  about  croak  me!"  gasps  the  Bearcat, 
as  white  as  the  referee's  shirt  should  of  been.  "But, 
speakin'  of  makin'  a  showin' — I'm  gonna  do  that  thing 
for  a  coupla  seconds,  anyways !" 

Clang!  goes  the  bell. 

A  wise-lookin'  bird,  sittin'  back  of  me,  jumps  up 
and  yells  at  the  Bearcat :  "Rush  him,  kid,  he  ain't  got 
nothin' !" 

One-Punch  Loughlin  comes  slowly  out,  grinnin'  at 
close  friends  and  noddin'  politely  to  acquaintances. 

The  next  minute  two  thousand  innocent  bystanders 
has  gone  crazy  and  Dummy  Carney  has  fell  into  the 
water  bucket  in  a  dead  faint ! 

The  second  the  bell  rung  Bearcat  Reed,  lookin'  like 
a  guy  on  his  way  to  the  chair  and  actin'  on  the  prin 
ciple  of  kill  or  get  killed,  has  charged  half-way  across 
the  ring  yellin':  "Old  men  and  cripples,  get  back  of 
the  ropes !"  A  foot  from  the  dumfounded  Loughlin, 
this  bird,  which  ordinarily  could  out-dive  all  the  seals 
in  the  world  once  he  got  in  a  ring,  smashes  a  right  to 
the  button  of  Loughlin's  jaw,  and  Dummy  Carney's 
comin'  champ  hits  the  mat  so  hard  I  bet  he  was  pickin' 
rosin  outa  his  face  for  a  month !  The  referee  counted 
to  "six,"  took  another  squint  at  the  study  in  still  life 
at  his  feet,  and  waved  the  dazed  Bearcat  to  his  corner. 
I  hadda  throw  twelve  guys  outa  the  ring  so's  I  could 
get  his  gloves  off.  A  artist  which  could  of  painted  the 
expression  on  Bearcat  Reed's  face  as  he  sat  there  with 
his  eyes  and  mouth  as  open  as  Central  Park,  gazin' 
at  One- Punch  Loughlin  asleep  at  the  switch,  would 


8  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

of  become  famous  on  that  one  picture.  The  Bearcat 
looked  like  a  guy  which  has  struck  a  match  on  lower 
Broadway  and  seen  the  Woolworth  Buildin'  imme 
diately  go  up  in  flames ! 

Of  course  it  was  a  fluke  win.  It  wouldn't  happen 
again  in  a  million  years,  but — it  happened  then,  which 
was  ample  for  the  Bearcat.  That  lucky  wallop  got  his 
name  all  over  the  country,  and  started  me  toward 
pilotin'  a  world's  champion.  Somebody  must  of 
slipped  all  the  four-leaf  clovers  in  the  world  into  the 
Bearcat's  hair,  because  the  next  day  he  puts  his  cut 
of  the  Loughlin  fight  on  a  20  to  1  shot,  which  win 
pulled  up,  and  I  don't  see  him  again  for  six  months. 
One-Punch  Loughlin  fin'ly  come  back  to  life,  and  the 
first  thing  he  done  was  to  bust  Dummy  Carney  in 
the  nose,  claimin'  he  had  been  framed,  and  then  he 
grabs  another  manager,  which  took  him  over  to  Eng 
land,  where  the  set-ups  runs  wild.  And  there  we  will 
leave  them,  gentle  reader,  for  the  time  bein',  because 
this  is  the  story  of  Kane  Halliday,  alias  "Kid  Rob 
erts,"  and  that's  as  far  as  the  poor  old  Bearcat  and 
One-Punch  Loughlin  figures  in  it  right  now.  Them 
guys  was  just  the  preliminary  birds  I  trotted  out  to 
entertain  the  crowd,  and  now,  boys  and  girls,  the  "next 
ex-e-bition  bout  of  the  evenin'  is  Kid  Roberts,  Yale 
'17,  vs.  Battlin'  Fate,  twelve  rounds  to  a  decision. 
Weights:  Roberts,  195;  Fate — all  the  rest.  Gents, 
kindly  stop  smokin'.  I  thank  you !" 

The  day  after  Bearcat  Reed  flattened  One-Punch 
Loughlin  and  followed  that  idiotic  act  by  leavin'  me 
flat,  I  met  Dummy  Carney,  the  other  victim,  in  the 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  9 

lobby  of  the  hotel.  One  of  his  eyes  is  garbed  in  the 
conventional  black  and  his  nose  is  a  trifle  outa  true. 
He  let  forth  a  beller  of  the  opposite  to  joy  when  he 
seen  me,  and  I  was  the  best  part  of  a  hour  convincin' 
him  that  I  hadn't  deliberately  double-crossed  him,  and 
that  me  and  the  Bearcat  was  more  stunned  than  he  was 
when  his  battler  wilted. 

"Well,  they  is  one  thing  about  Loughlin — he  proved 
to  the  wide,  wide  world  that  they  is  somethin'  in  a 
name,  anyways!" 

"What  d'ye  mean  ?"  growls  Dummy. 

"Well,"  I  says,  grinnin'  demurely,  "you  called  him 
One-Punch  Loughlin,  and  that's  exactly  what  he  was ! 
If  you  remember  the  late  holocaust,  the  Bearcat  only 
landed  one  wallop  on  your  ex-man-killer's  chin,  and 
he  immediately  turned  in  his  resignation,  didn't 
he?" 

"The  big  yellah  dog !"  groans  Dummy.  "I  had  him 
signed  for  seven  fights  in  the  next  coupla  months  that 
would  of  win  me  around  twenty  thousand  berries. 
From  the  telegrams  I  got  this  mornin'  you'd  think  I 
had  just  been  elected  governor  of  half  a  dozen  States, 
and  every  one  of  them  wires  is  cancelin'  Loughlin.  Kin 
you  imagine  him  runnin'  out  on  me  too?  If  that  guy 
fights  for  anybody  else,  I'll  have  him  put  in  the  hoose- 
gow  till  St.  Looey  wins  a  pennant !  I  can  start  off  by 
suin'  him  and — " 

"You'll  get  fat  suin'  Loughlin!"  I  shuts  him  off. 
"John  the  Barber  sued  Dempsey  for  breach  of  promise, 
and  all  John  got  was  a  introduction  to  all  the  lawyers 
in  America.  Forget  about  Loughlin — you're  well  rid 
of  him,  anyways.  After  a  exercise  boy  like  Bearcat 


10  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Reed  knockin'  him  dead  with  a  punch,  they  wouldn't 
let  Loughlin  in  a  fight  club  now  if  he  had  a  ticket! 
I'm  gonna  shove  off  for  New  York,  and  you  better 
come  along  with  me.  The  way  they  been  breakin'  for 
me,  I  gotta  good  mind  to  get  outa  the  fight  game  alto 
gether  and  turn  square!" 

Dummy  begins  to  clear  his  throat  and  rub  his  hands 
together  for  a  minute,  and  then  suddenly  he  turns  to 
me  and  lowers  his  voice: 

"We  kin  grab  a  rattler  outa  here  to-night,"  he  says. 
"Stick  around  for  a  couple  minutes,  and  you'll  git  a 
flash  at  the  next  heavyweight  champion  of  the  world 
and  points  west!  That's  if  he  shows  up,"  he  adds. 

"You  certainly  have  become  a  pig  for  punishment, 
Dummy!"  I  grins.  "Who's  this  guy?" 

"Kane  Halliday!"  he  whispers  like  he  was  sayin' 
"The  Sheriff  of  Shantung !"  or  the  like.  "How  'bout 
that  ?" 

"It  don't  mean  nothin'  in  my  young  life,"  I  says. 
"How  d'ye  play  it  ?" 

"You  never  heard  tell  of  Kane  Halliday  ?"  he  gasps 
like  his  ears  is  both  liars.  "The  big,  now,  football  star, 
the  weights  thrower,  the — the — runner,  the — ah — what 
they  call  a  roundabout  athalete?  You  know,  one  of 
them  bimbos  which  flings  a  wicked  spear  and  hurls  a 
mean  hammer  and  that  there  stuff,  get  me  ?  Why,  they 
claim  this  baby  beat  Harvard  and  the  other  college  all 
by  himself !" 

"That  ain't  my  fault,"  I  yawns.  "And  I  can't  iden 
tify  the  body  yet." 

"Was  bein'  stupid  cold,  you'd  be  zero!"  snarls 
Dummy.  "Why,  the  papers  was  full  of  this  guy !" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  11 

"The  papers  is  got  nothin'  on  me,"  I  says,  gettin'  up. 
"I'm  full  of  him  too !  So  long !" 

But  he  calls  me  back,  and  in  about  twenty  minutes 
I  have  got  the  low  down  on  Monsieur  Kane  Halliday. 

This  guy  had  been  committed  to  college  with  the 
idea  that  when  he  come  out  he'd  be  at  the  very  least  a 
civil  engineer,  though  most  of  the  engineers  /  know 
learned  their  trade  in  a  round-house  and  yard  and  was 
civil  enough  as  far  as  that  part  of  it  goes.  Halliday's 
people  was  supposed  to  have  a  dollar  for  every  egg  in 
a  shad  roe,  and  the  boy  treated  the  civil  engineer  thing 
as  a  practical  joke  and  college  as  somethin'  he  had  been 
gave  for  Christmas  to  play  with.  The  principal  studies 
he  devoted  his  time  and  attention  to  was  football, 
wrestlin',  runnin',  dancin',  boxin',  playin'  saxophone  in 
the  Glee  Club  and  poker  in  the  others.  He  won  more 
gold  and  silver  cups  than  the  Crown  Prince  lifted  from 
Belgium,  was  the  most  popular  guy  that  ever  wore  a 
"Y"  on  his  sweater,  and  as  a  reward  he  fin'ly  got 
throwed  outa  dear  old  Yale  on  his  ear  without  even  a 
reference,  let  alone  a  diploma,  because  he  had  a  preju 
dice  against  enterin'  a  classroom.  He  hit  the  cruel 
world  about  the  same  time  Germany  did,  and  he  played 
with  the  Allies  as  a  dizzy  aviator. 

When  he  come  back  he  was  greeted  with  the  delight 
ful  information  that  his  old  man  had  gone  broke  on 
the  war,  and  it  was  up  to  him  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Manual  Labor,  provided  he  wished  to  continue  his 
daily  consumption  of  proteins  and  calories,  as  they 
wittily  refer  to  food  in  Battle  Creek.  Instead  of  goin' 
down  to  the  drug  store  and  quaffin'  off  a  beaker  of 


12  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

arsenic  when  he  heard  of  this  tough  break,  Young  Hal- 
liday  borreys  enough  sugar  to  send  his  thoughtless 
parent  down  to  South  America  for  a  rest,  brushes  back 
his  hair,  and  starts  out  to  dum found  the  universe  with 
stunts  that  would  make  a  Douglas  Fairbanks  thriller 
look  reasonable.  With  the  reputation  he  had  grabbed 
off  at  college  he  figured  he  was  in  soft,  and  it  was  only 
a  question  which  bank  he'd  start  off  bein'  president  of. 

It  took  the  kid  about  a  month  to  find  out  that  the 
young  men  which  writes  all  the  movies,  novels,  and 
plays  in  which  they  is  a  hero  amongst  the  other  char 
acters  is  slightly  addicted  to  exaggeration.  The  fact 
that  his  father  had  been  granted  a  absolute  divorce 
from  his  bank  roll  had  leaked  out,  and  his  one-time 
buddies  become  the  busiest  guys  in  North  America 
when  he  went  to  call  on  'em. 

Now,  if  Halliday  had  only  known  a  scenario  writer, 
he  would  of  been  tipped  off  to  sneak  out  immediately 
for  the  "great  open  stretches  of  the  untamed  North 
west,"  where,  as  a  six-day-old  infant  knows,  "a  man 
has  his  chance  to  live  clean,  fight  hard  and  square,  and 
win  his  way  to  the  top  with  his  pure-hearted,  fearless, 
flashing-eyed,  and  becomingly,  though  sensibly,  garbed 
mate  at  his  side."  Or  he  could  of  gone  to  punchin* 
cows,  reformin'  all  the  rough  yet  golden-hearted  cow 
boys  by  his  inability  to  cuss  and  his  ability  to  fan  a  six! 
gun,  windin'  up  by  weddin'  the  rancher's  sensationally 
beautiful  daughter,  which  had  been  to  New  York  and 
is  through  with  the  cold,  merciless,  and  gilded  sham 
of  the  city,  and  craves  for  the  sweet  smell  of  the  pines, 
rodeos,  cactus,  sagebrush,  and  steers. 

Instead  of  this,  Halliday  got  as  far  as  Ohio,  where, 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  13 

whilst  waitin'  for  somethin'  to  break,  he  joined  a  troupe 
of  professional  football  players  made  up  of  ex-college 
stars.  He  played  full  back  and  had  been  gettin'  from 
fifty  to  a  hundred  a  game,  which  was  enough  to  keep 
him  both  full  and  back.  Full  of  food  and  back  in  the 
spotlight.  The  All-Star  Team,  however,  was  bustin' 
up  in  Cleveland,  and  it  was  at  this  point  that  Dummy 
Carney,  which  could  dive  into  a  haystack  and  emerge 
with  ten  dollars'  worth  of  needles,  come  across  him. 
Dummy  had  heard  some  of  the  kid's  history  from  Tin- 
Ear  Fagan,  a  ex-pug,  which  was  with  the  team  as  a 
rubber  and  some  from  Halliday  himself. 

". .  .And  so,"  winds  up  Dummy,  pullin'  out  one  of 
his  favorite  brand  of  cigars,  which  is  called  "Last  One 
I  Got" — "and  so  I  have  worked  over  this  baby  for  a 
week.  He  looks  like  platinum  to  me!  You  know 
what  the  demand  is  for  heavies  right  now,  and  if  this 
guy  has  got  anything  at  all  I  can  take  him  around  the 
sticks,  and  then  bring  him  into  New  York  and  clean  up 
with  him.  In  about  a  year  or  two,  if  he's  still  steppin' 
out,  we'll  go  after  the  Big  Guy.  Say — can  you  imagine 
•me  pilotin'  a  world's  heavyweight  champ?" 

"I  prob'ly  could  if  you  would  make  me  a  present  of 
a  bite  of  that  opium  you  musta  been  chewin' !"  I  sneers. 
"A  college  guy,  hey?  Well,  111  stake  you  to  him! 
I'm  off  them  amateur  champs." 

"Wait  till  you  get  a  flash  at  this  bird!"  interrupts 
Dummy.  "Why,  he's  got  a  left  hand  that — ssh! — 
here  he  comes.  Play  dead,  now !" 

Halliday  was  class,  they's  no  gettin'  away  from  it. 
The  boy  stood  well  over  six  foot  and  was  dressed  like 


14  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

he  had  placed  all  of  his  football  plunder  on  his  back. 
From  my  first  quick  size-up  I  judged  he  scaled  around 
195  ringside  when  right.  He  had  the  light,  sure  tread 
of  a  prowlin'  cat,  which  meant  speed,  and  the  clean- 
cut,  smooth-muscled  bulk,  taper  in'  gradually  from  the 
walkin'-beam  shoulders  to  the  unusually  slim  waist, 
advertised  punchin'  power.  I  knew  right  away  that 
baby  packed  a  nasty  wallop  somewheres.  Dummy  said 
he  was  twenty-three.  He  looked  older. 

Apart  from  them  shop  items,  he  inventoried  about 
as  much  like  a  prize  fighter  as  I'm  Mary  Pick  ford's 
double.  I  though  what  a  shock  it  was  gonna  be  to  him 
the  first  time  somebody  flattened  his  nose.  It  was! 
But  the  thing  that  struck  me  odd  was  his  eyes.  They 
didn't  seem  to  fit  in  with  the  rest  of  the  layout  at  all. 
They  should  of  been  baby  blue  and  starin'  innocently 
at  the  world  to  go  with  that  golden  blond  hair.  But 
they  wasn't.  They  was  a  kinda  chilled  steel  gray,  and 
for  all  the  flickin'  they  did  they  could  of  been  glass. 
It  was  like  lookin'  into  the  barrels  of  a  coupla  "gats." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  us,  nodded  kinda  nervously 
to  Dummy,  and  flashed  them  eyes  on  me  kinda  cold. 

"S'all  right,  kid!"  says  Dummy,  catchin'  the  look. 
"This  guy's  my — eh — private  secretary.  Anything  you 
say  in  front  of  him  will  be  used — I  mean — well,  what 
d'ye  say?" 

Halliday  grinned  as  we  all  sat  down  and  pulled  his 
chair  closer  to  Dummy. 

"I've  decided  to  accept  your  proposition,  Carney," 
says  Halliday  slowly,  settlin'  back  like  he  was  gettin' 
ready  for  a  long  speech.  "Now,  in  the  first  place,  let 
us—" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  15 

But  Dummy  was  on  his  feet,  slappin'  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Fine  business!"  he  cackles.  "Inside  a  year  your 
income  will  sound  like  the  population  of  China  multey- 
plied  by  two,  and  like  as  not  I'll  have  a  couple  of 
pennies  myself !  Now,  they's  no  use  of  you  gettin'  all 
tired  out  talkin' ;  lemme  take  charge  of  that  part  of  it. 
We  start  in  to-morrow  night  rakin'  in  the  golden 
stream.  Wait  here  till  I  send  a  wire !" 

Oh,  Dummy  was  a  fast  worker,  they's  no  doubt  of 
that. 

Halliday  looked  after  him  kinda  dazed,  and  then  he 
wiggles  them  pliable  iron  shoulders  of  his  and  laughs. 
We  traded  a  few  remarks  about  this  and  that,  holdin' 
each  other  even  till  Dummy  come  bustlin'  back. 

"Now  we're  all  set !"  he  says  to  Halliday.  "I  kinda 
thought  you'd  see  the  light,  so  I  booked  you  in  San- 
dusky  a  few  days  ago  at  the  Crescent  A.  C.  We're 
gonna  box  young  Du  Fresne,  heavyweight  champion 
of  Canada,  twelve  rounds  to  a  decision.  You'll  prob'ly 
kill  that  bimbo  with  a  punch,  and  then  we  jump  to 
Columbus,  and — " 

Halliday  turns  a  slow  smile  on  Dummy  and  holds  up 
his  hand. 

"Your  opinion  of  my  ability  is  certainly  flattering, 
old  man!"  he  interrupts,  "and  your  system  at  least 
seems  to  have  the  merit  of  originality.  My  first  bout 
is  to  be  with  the  Canadian  champion,  eh?  What  do 
you  propose  that  I  do — start  at  the  top  and  work  my 
way  down?"  He  chuckled  like  the  kid  he  was. 

"Heh?"  snorts  Dummy.  "Oh — this  Du  Fresne 
guy?  Say — if  he's  champion  of  Canada,  then  I'm  next 


16  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

in  line  for  the  English  throne ;  get  that  ?  He  used  to 
fight  in  the  preliminaries  around  New  York  under  the 
name  of  Set-Up  Jim  Byrnes,  and  he's  wore  out  more 
tights  reclinin'  on  the  floor  of  a  ring  than  any  fighter 
which  ever  pulled  on  a  glove!  Lefty  Murray's  re- 
christened  him  and  is  takin'  him  around  the  flat-car 
circuit  till  somethin'  breaks.  D'ye  think  I'd  let  you 
go  in  there  if  this  guy  was  any  good?  All  /  hope  is 
that  you  don't  fracture  his  skull !" 

"But—"  begins  Halliday. 

"This  playin'  football  was  a  bright  idea,"  goes  on 
Dummy.  "It's  kept  you  in  steady  trainin'  all  the  time, 
which  saves  me  a  lotta  trouble."  He  turns  to  me. 
"Boy,  he  says,  "that  football  thing  is  one  tough  pas 
time.  Kin  you  imagine  them  cuckoos  doin'  that  stuff 
for  nothin'f"  He  swings  around  on  Halliday  again, 
which  was  watchin'  him  like  he  was  a  curiosity.  "You 
ain't  mixed  up  with  no  dame,  are  you?"  he  demands, 
suspiciously. 

The  most  astonishm'  change  come  over  the  charmin' 
features  of  Monsieur  Halliday.  His  eyebrows  be 
comes  one  straight  line,  and  them  cold  eyes  gets  down 
to  about  the  size  of  match  heads.  I  found  myself 
givin'  a  little  shiver,  and  he  wasn't  even  lookin'  at  me. 
He  took  a  half  step  forward,  and  I  says  to  myself : 
"Fare  thee  well,  Dummy  Carney!"  and  friend 
Dummy's  complexion  got  a  shade  lighter,  whilst  a 
silly  grin  appeared  on  his  nervous  lips.  But  they  was 
no  bloodshed. 

Halliday  coughed  a  coupla  times,  and  then  his  color 
came  back. 

"Eh — we  will  leave  the  personal  element  entirely  out 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  17 

of  our  discussions  for  the  present,  Carney,"  he  says, 
his  voice  a  chill  breeze.  "As  I  understand  my  arrange 
ment  with  you,  it  is  a  purely  business  affair.  We  will 
keep  it  that  way !" 

"Sure !"  nods  Dummy  quickly  and  with  the  greatest 
of  relief.  "And  there's  that !  Now,  speakin'  of  busi 
ness,  from  now  on  your  name  will  be  Kid  Roberts, 
unless  you  get  trimmed  under  that  name,  in  which  case 
we  will  get  you  a  nice  fresh  new  one  and  start  you 
over  again.  That  Kane  Halliday  is  a  swell  name  for  a 
collar  or  a  hotel,  but  it  don't  mean  nothin'  in  the  ring — 
O.  K.?" 

They  was  no  argument  about  that  end  of  it — in  fact, 
it  seemed  to  please  Halliday,  which  from  now  on, 
gentle  reader,  we  will  call  Kid  Roberts,  as  they  never 
was  no  necessity  to  change  it. 

"A  lulu,  hey?"  whispers  Dummy  in  my  ear  when 
Kid  Roberts  has  gone  upstairs  to  pack  up.  "He's  been 
workin'  out  here  for  a  week  up  at  the  Arena  Club. 
I've  had  him  under  a  pull  to  save  his  hands,  but  he's 
flattened  a  dozen  handlers  with  a  left  hook  that  don't 
travel  over  six  inches  !  That's  poor,  eh  ?" 

"He  looks  worth  a  bet,"  I  says,  carelessly.  "I  only 
hope  he  don't  blow  up  on  you  to-morrow  night,  that's 
all." 

"What  d'ye  mean  blow  up?"  snarls  Dummy.  "He 
oughta  be  able  to  take  a  roomful  of  guys  like  Du 
Fresne — you  know  that !" 

"Oughta  be  able  and  can  do  is  different,"  I  grins. 
"A  lotta  wise  birds  figured  Willard  should  of  let 
Dempsey  come  in  with  a  gun  to  make  it  a  little  more 
even,  but  look  what  happened !  You  wanna  figure  that 


18  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

this  boy  will  be  doin'  somethin'  to-morrow  night  he 
never  done  before,  and  that  conditions  is  gonna  be  a 
whole  lot  changed  for  him.  The  first  shock  of  that 
crowd  is  gonna  have  some  effect  on  your  battler, 
Dummy,  and  whether  it'll  be  good  or  bad,  I  can't  guess. 
I've  seen  some  it  made  quit  cold  and  some  it  made 
fightin'  fools;  it's  accordin'  to  how  a  guy's  nerves  is 
hooked  up.  Now — " 

"The  crowd  won't  bother  this  guy,"  interrupts 
Dummy.  "He's  fought  before  witnesses  in  college  and 
the  like." 

"I  bet  he  never  heard  no  ringside  prattle  like  he'll 
hear  to-morrow !"  I  says.  "And  they's  another  thing. 
Your  child  wonder  may  pack  a  mean  wallop,  but  the 
thing  is — can  he  take  it?  You  know  this  Du  Fresne, 
bein'  led  to  the  slaughter,  will  be  all  hopped  up  to 
make  a  terrible  flash  in  the  openin'  canto.  If  he  shakes 
Kid  Roberts  up  with  a  coupla  chance  swings,  and  the 
crowd  begins  to  roar  for  the  Kid's  blood,  will  he  stand 
up  under  fire  or  will  he  wilt?  Think  of  Bearcat  Reed 
knockin'  One-Punch  Loughlin  dead !  Can  this  Rob 
erts  baby  fight  with  a  closed  eye,  or  a  busted  nose, 
or—" 

"Aw,  shut  up!"  hollers  Dummy.  "You  should  of 
been  a  undertaker !  Kid  Roberts  won't  have  to  take  it 
— he'll  flatten  this  guy  with  one  clout.  I'll  lay  you 
a  hundred  even  it  don't  go  two  rounds — what  d'ye 
say?" 

"Sold !"  I  says.  "Dummy,  I  ain't  figurin'  your  boy 
yellah.  I'm  figurin'  on  a  thing  called  temperament 
which  I  have  run  up  against  before.  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  the  muss  went  the  limit,  because  I'm  afraid 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  19 

if  Roberts  gets  hurt  early,  bein'  green,  he'll  play  safe 
and  be  satisfied  to  stall  the  rest  of  it  and  dog  it." 

Dummy  snorted,  but  he  looked  worried.  "If  he 
can't  take  it,  I  don't  wish  no  part  of  him,"  he  says. 
"I'll  leave  him  flat  in  this  Sandusky  joint  if  he  don't 
come  through  on  the  bit !" 

Well,  I  went  to  Sandusky  with  'em  as  Dummy's 
guest,  and  also  at  the  sudden  request  of  Kid  Roberts 
to  go  behind  him  in  his  corner  for  his  first  fight  for 
money.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  a  likin'  to  me  for 
some  reason, .and  they  is  no  doubt  I  was  for  him  strong. 
You  couldn't  help  fall  for  him;  he  was  just  a  big, 
swell-lookin',  over-grown  boy.  For  instance,  goin' 
down  in  the  train  he  made  friends  with  about  a  dozen 
kids,  and  when  we  pulled  into  Sandusky  he  was  drawin' 
pictures  for  'em  of  elephants  on  the  back  of  his  con 
tract  with  Dummy.  Kid  Roberts  belonged  in  the  ring 
the  same  way  I  belong  in  the  White  House ! 

Dummy  was  afraid  of  sendin'  him  in  too  cold  after 
the  train  ride,  and,  findin'  that  the  club  had  a  gym  in 
connection  with  it,  he  sneaks  the  Kid  down  there  and 
has  him  step  around  a  little  with  a  big  dinge  which 
was  workin'  out.  They  had  been  at  it  about  a  minute 
when  the  Kid  rocks  the  tar  baby  with  a  right  to  the 
body  and  brings  up  his  left  for  his  man's  jaw.  But 
this  dark  guy  knew  too  much  for  Roberts,  and  with  a 
grunt  he  shifted  his  bullethead  just  enough  to  let  the 
wallop  swish  by.  The  force  of  the  punch  carried  Rob 
erts  forward  on  his  toes,  and  his  fist  crashed  into  a 
steam  pipe  with  everything  he  had  behind  it.  Dummy 
let  out  a  wild  shriek  and  waved  the  dinge  away,  but 


20  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  Kid  only  grinned  kinda  sheepish,  like  he  was 
ashamed  he  had  been  so  clumsy.  The  hand  was  red  and 
swollen  a  bit  when  we  come  to  tape  it  before  the  fight, 
but  it  didn't  look  like  nothin'  serious,  so  Dummy  soused 
it  with  arnica  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

The  Kid  was  cool  enough,  though  a  trifle  pale  whilst 
we  was  sittin'  in  the  dressin'  room  waitin'  for  the  semi 
final  to  wind  up,  and  his  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  a 
newspaper  I  had  brung  in.  On  the  front  page  is  a 
picture  of  some  well-to-do  heiress  which  had  just 
come  back  to  New  York  from  Shantung  or  some  place 
where  she  had  been  wilin'  away  the  winter.  Roberts 
snatches  it  up  and  gazes  at  it  with  a  hungry  look.  I 
don't  blame  him.  She  looked  as  pretty  as  $5,000  a 
week  would  look  to  a  motor  man. 

"What  a  rotten  photo !"  he  mutters,  half  to  himself. 
"She  looks  fit,  though." 

"Friend  of  yours?"  I  says,  drapin'  the  bathrobe  over 
his  shoulders. 

He's  still  in  a  trance  over  the  picture. 

"Oh — eh — yes — eh — quite  so!"  he  mumbles.  "How 
the  devil  can  I  get  to  New  York  to-morrow?"  he  in 
quires  of  himself,  not  even  noticin'  me. 

I  filed  that  one  away  for  future  reference.  I  heard 
a  whole  lot  about  the  lady  afterward — in  fact,  I  met 
her  under  exceedin'ly  odd  conditions.  But — 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  we  swum  through  the 
cigarette  smoke,  pushed  down  the  aisle,  and  climbed 
through  the  ropes,  amid  the  dull  rumble  of  excited 
voices,  as  the  papers  says.  The  mob,  which  had  never 
heard  tell  of  Kid  Roberts  before  and,  for  all  they  knew, 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  21 

never  would  again,  presented  him  with  a  wild  cheer. 
All  they  knew  was  that  two  big  guys  was  gonna  mingle, 
and  the  chances  was  excellent  that  at  least  one  of  them 
would  be  knocked  cold.  The  Kid  bowed  very  solemnly 
to  the  cheer,  which  act  drawed  a  laugh  that  didn't  help 
his  high-strung  nerves  a  bit. 

They  was  no  sign  of  Young  Du  Fresne  as  yet. 
Roberts  shuffled  his  feet  and  stared  down  at  'em,  bitin' 
his  lips.  A  bad  sign !  The  glarin'  lights  beatin'  down 
on  his  head,  the  blood  spattered  around  in  his  corner 
from  the  last  brawl,  and  the  noisy  crowd  was  raisin' 
merry  Hades  with  him. 

Some  roughneck  hollered :  "You  won't  be  so  pretty, 
pretty  soon,  Cutey !" 

Another  one  bawled :  "Who  brung  that  chorus  man 
in?" 

"Ain't  he  got  lovely  skin?"  come  from  somewheres 
else. 

By  this  time  the  Kid's  feet  was  doin'  a  shimmy  on 
the  floor.  Them  sensitive  ears  of  his  caught  every 
word,  and  this  rough,  sarcastical  stuff  was  like  stabbin' 
him  with  hot  needles,  only  more  so.  He  was  exactly 
like  a  two-year-old  at  the  post  for  the  first  time.  The 
case-hardened  bruiser  would  of  grinned  back  at  the 
crowd  and  waved  at  'em,  and  prob'ly  got  a  big  hand  in 
return.  The  sympathies  of  a  fight  crowd  is  as  change 
able  as  a  woman's  mind,  but  still  and  all  very  easy  to 
figure.  They're  always  with  the  winner,  no  matter 
if  the  guy  on  the  floor  is  their  brother. 

I  gotta  hand  it  to  Lefty  Murray,  Young  Du  Fresne's 
pilot.  He  kept  his  man  outa  the  ring  till  the  crowd 
was  ready  to  tear  the  roof  off  with  impatience,  knowin' 


22  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

what  the  wear  and  tear  would  be  on  the  waitin'  Rob 
erts.  He  kicked  and  argued  about  every  point  like  the 
fight  was  for  the  world's  championship.  He  found 
fault  with  the  referee,  the  paddin'  of  the  ring,  the 
lights,  and  was  startin'  a  long  argument  about  the  way 
the  Kid's  hands  was  taped,  when  Roberts  jumped  up 
and  stopped  it.  His  nerves  was  shot  to  pieces.  Not 
nerve — nerves.  Sweet  Mamma,  but  there's  a  differ 
ence! 

"Come  on!"  busts  out  the  Kid.  "Let's  get  it  over 
with!" 

Lefty  Murray  looked  him  over  coolly  and  grinned. 
The  Kid's  drawn  face  and  quiverin'  muscles  told  him 
aplenty.  I  knew  what  he  was  tellin'  his  man  after  they 
shook  hands,  just  as  if  I  was  in  Du  Fresne's  corner: 
"Get  in  close  and  play  for  his  body.  Keep  on  top  of 
him — don't  let  him  set.  If  you  shake  him  up  right  off 
the  bat,  he's  through!" 

This  Du  Fresne  looked  more  like  a  gorilla  than  a 
human  bein',  and  prob'ly  was.  He  was  a  good  twenty 
pounds  heavier  than  the  Kid,  and  what  would  of  been 
a  face  on  the  average  guy  was  simply  a  puffed,  scarred, 
and  pulpy  mass.  He  growled  and  glared  ferociously  at 
the  Kid  from  his  corner,  and  the  crowd  yelled  like  a 
pack  of  wolves.  The  Kid  grinned  back  at  him  faintly 
and  begin  wettin'  his  lips  with  his  tongue. 

Dummy  had  left  the  handlin'  of  the  Kid  entirely  up 
to  me,  with  a  coupla  boys  which  had  just  massacred 
each  other  in  a  preliminary  for  a  purse  of  $10,  as 
towel  wavers.  Whilst  I  was  massagin'  the  Kid's 
stomach,  which  felt  as  tough  and  ridged  as  a  wash 
board  under  my  hands,  I  let  fall  the  remark  that  Du 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  23 

Fresne  couldn't  take  it  and  would  quit  like  a  dog  the 
minute  he  got  hurt.  Then  the  bell  rung. 

Du  Fresne  was  off  his  stool  and  halfway  across  the 
ring  before  the  Kid  had  hardly  straightened  up.  He 
smashed  a  left  to  the  body  that  shook  Roberts  from 
stem  to  stern,  but  whilst  the  mob  was  still  jumpin'  up 
on  their  chairs  and  shriekin',  the  Kid  feinted  Du 
Fresne  with  his  own  left  and  then  shot  a  right  hook  to 
the  head  that  hurled  Du  Fresne  back  a  half  dozen  feet 
before  he  crashed  down  on  his  face.  That  wallop 
landed  a  bit  high,  or  the  quarrel  would  of  been  over 
right  then  and  there.  Du  Fresne  stumbled  to  his  feet 
at  "nine"  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  had  been  told 
he  wouldn't  get  a  nickel  if  he  didn't  last  at  least  a 
coupla  rounds.  Dummy  screamed  for  the  Kid  to  wade 
in  and  finish  his  man,  but  the  yellin'  and  excitement 
upset  the  boy's  judgment,  and  he  allowed  Du  Fresne 
to  dive  into  a  clinch,  where  that  thankful  baby  hung 
on  glassy-eyed  till  the  referee  pried  'em  apart.  The 
Kid  dropped  him  twice  more  for  short  counts  before 
the  bell,  and  Du  Fresne  reeled  to  his  corner,  bleedin' 
from  the  nose  and  mouth  and  practically  out  on  his 
feet.  Roberts  didn't  even  have  his  hair  mussed.  The 
joyful  mob  was  with  him  to  a  man.  He  looked  a  win 
ner  all  over,  and  I  figured  he'd  knock  Du  Fresne 
kickin'  with  the  first  wallop  in  the  next  round.  Dummy 
jumped  in  and  sponged  the  Kid's  face,  as  happy  as  a 
girl  with  her  first  engagement  ring. 

The  rest  seemed  to  have  done  Du  Fresne  a  lotta 
good,  and  he  come  out  for  the  second  innin'  as  fresh 
as  a  daisy,  but  not  as  good-lookin'.  The  way  some  of 
them  tramps  can  recover  from  a  beatin'  that  would  kill 


24  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

a  horse  is  somethin'  I  never  been  able  to  understand! 
He  missed  a  wild  swing  to  the  jaw,  and  Roberts  jolted 
him  with  a  wicked  right  that  lifted  him  a  inch  from 
the  floor,  but  he  kept  his  feet  and,  backin'  into  a  corner 
like  he  was  ready  to  call  it  a  day,  he  covered  his  head 
with  his  arms  and  waited  patiently  to  get  it.  Once 
again  the  customers  jumps  up  on  their  chairs;  once 
again  they  was  treated  to  a  disappointment.  Instead 
of  steppin'  in  and  polishin'  off  this  guy  with  a  coupla 
well-placed  punches,  the  Kid  stands  off  and  waits  for 
him  to  recover.  I  though  Dummy  Carney  would  go 
crazy.  "Bring  up  that  left,  you  boob !"  he  kept 
screamin'.  The  referee  walks  over  to  the  Kid  and 
slaps  him  on  the  shoulders:  "Go  on,  fight!"  he  snarls. 
"What  are  you  gonna  do — kiss  him?" 

Now,  the  Kid's  ace  was  his  left  hook,  which  after 
one  try  he  put  back  in  the  safe.  I  noticed  a  queer  look 
on  his  face,  as  if  he  couldn't  understand  how  come  he 
had  delivered  that  man  killer  and  yet  Du  Fresne  was 
still  alive.  I  caught  him  glancin'  down  at  the  left  glove 
a  coupla  times  like  he  wanted  to  be  sure  the  hand  was 
still  in  it,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  shakes  his  head 
and  stops  usin'  it  altogether.  He  simply  give  up.  As 
far  as  his  famous  left  hook  was  concerned,  he  could 
of  checked  it  outside  the  clubhouse !  Du  Fresne  man 
aged  to  last  out  the  second  round  by  clinchin'  at  every 
chance  and  holdin'  on  like  rheumatism.  Right  be 
fore  the  bell  he  suddenly  straightened  up  and  split  the 
Kid's  lips  with  a  jab  that  brought  a  stream  of  red  when 
it  come  away.  The  mob  howled,  but  Roberts  grinned 
and  come  back  with  a  smash  to  the  short  ribs  that 
dropped  Du  Fresne  gaspin'  to  his  knees. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  25 

When  the  Kid  ran  to  his  corner  at  the  end  of  the 
second  round,  the  sportsmen  which  had  paid  large 
quantities  of  lucre  to  see  a  knock-out  was  loudly  and 
bitterly  complainin'.  They  was  off  Kid  Roberts  for 
life  and  tellin'  the  world  about  it.  They'd  seen 
him  hit  Du  Fresne  with  everything  but  the  club's 
license,  yet  Du  Fresne  was  still  alive,  which  was  all 
wrong.  Evidently  this  Roberts  couldn't  hit,  and  a 
heavy  that  can't  hit  is  as  popular  as  foot  warmers  in 
Hades. 

Dummy  begged,  cried,  and  threatened  for  the  Kid 
to  go  in  and  kill  Du  Fresne,  but  Kid  Roberts  had  ap 
parently  lost  all  interest  in  the  combat.  Du  Fresne 
waddled  out  to  the  middle  of  the  ring  like  he  couldn't 
believe  his  own  eyes  that  he  was  still  on  his  feet,  but, 
actin'  upon  advice  from  his  corner,  he  got  to  work 
again.  He  put  a  coupla  light  lefts  to  the  face  without 
a  return  from  Dummy's  hope,  and  then  the  Kid  started 
to  swing  with  this  guy.  The  rough-house  stuff  was 
Du  Fresne's  dish,  and  in  no  time  at  all  he  had  closed 
the  Kid's  right  eye  and  had  his  sore  lip  puffed  up  like 
a  balloon.  The  Kid  made  a  few  weak  returns  with 
his  right,  usin'  that  dynamite  left  for  blockin'  and 
feintin'  purposes  only,  and  the  dumfounded  Du  Fresne 
got  more  courage  every  second.  Comin'  out  of  a 
clinch,  he  swung  a  vicious  right  to  the  Kid's  stomach 
and  folleyed  that  with  a  clip  on  the  jaw  that  staggered 
Roberts  and  drove  whatever  judgment  he  had  left  outa 
his  head.  He  missed  a  dozen  right  swings,  and  then 
fell  into  one  from  Du  Fresne  that  opened  a  gash  under 
his  bum  eye  a  inch  deep.  The  crowd  was  roarin'  for  a 
knockout,  and  Du  Fresne's  manager  was  on  the  verge 


26  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

of  the  hystericals.  At  a  yell  from  his  corner,  Du 
Fresne  shifted  his  attack  to  the  Kid's  mid  section  and 
suddenly  hooked  a  left  and  right  to  the  body  that 
doubled  Roberts  into  a  pantin'  knot.  He  was  too  ex 
cited  to  folley  up  his  advantage,  or  it  would  of  been 
curtains  for  the  Kid.  He  fell  wildly  into  a  clinch,  but 
Du  Fresne  shook  him  off  and  stabbed  the  sore  eye  with 
a  nasty  straight-arm  right  that  sent  Roberts  staggerin' 
to  his  corner,  punch  drunk  and  gory. 

The  fourth  and  fifth  rounds  was  the  same  as  the 
third.  Du  Fresne  pasted  the  Kid  from  pillar  to  post, 
cuttin*  him  to  ribbons  with  nasty  left  and  right  chops, 
but  Roberts  still  refused  to  use  his  left,  swingin'  wildly 
with  his  right  and  divin'  into  a  clinch  whenever  he  got 
hurt,  which  was  early  and  often.  He  didn't  land  a  half 
dozen  solid  punches  from  the  second  round  on.  In  Du 
Fresne's  corner  they  was  havin'  a  party. 

In  the  middle  of  the  sixth  round,  with  Du  Fresne 
chasin'  the  battered  Kid  all  over  the  ring  and  makin' 
a  choppin'  block  of  him,  Dummy,  havin'  cussed,  cried, 
and  yelled  himself  hoarse,  jumps  up  and  whispers  in 
my  ear :  "I'm  through  with  this  big  stiff  for  life !  He's 
as  yellah  as  a  barrel  of  grapefruit.  You  was  right, 
they's  always  somethin'  wrong  with  them  gymnasium 
world  beaters.  This  guy  can't  take  it.  Look  at  him 
wilt  every  time  he  stops  one.  I'm  gonna  duck ;  I  don't 
wanna  see  no  more  of  it !" 

"D'ye  wanna  get  rid  of  him?"  I  says  innocently. 

"Make  me  a  offer !"  he  snaps. 

"Well,"  I  says,  watchin'  the  ring  outa  the  corner 
of  my  eye,  "you  owe  me  a  hundred  berries  on  account 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  27 

of  the  kid  not  winnin'  in  a  round.  Gimme  his  contract 
and  it's  even  all  around !" 

That's  how  I  got  Kid  Roberts.  A  year  and  a  half 
later  Dummy  Carney  stood  in  the  lobby  of  Madison 
Square  Garden  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  offered  me 
$30,000  for  that  contract  back ! 

As  Dummy  snaked  his  way  out  through  the  crowd, 
I  looked  up  in  time  to  see  Du  Fresne  hang  the  Kid 
over  the  ropes  with  a  volley  of  lefts  and  rights,  and 
the  referee  was  lookin'  over  at  me  for  the  sponge.  A 
left  chop  connected  solidly  and  the  Kid  slid  to  the  floor, 
restin'  on  his  hands  and  knees.  The  bell  clanged  at 
"eight,"  and  we  dragged  Roberts  to  his  corner  and 
worked  over  him  with  everything  but  a  pulmotor. 

It's  tough  to  see  your  man  licked,  but  they  is  nothin' 
tougher  in  the  world  than  to  see  him  licked  when  you 
know  he  can  kill  the  other  guy  with  one  well-placed 
smash!  I  begged  this  boy  to  try  that  left  once  more. 
I  tried  everything  I  could  think  of  except  Dummy's 
stuff  of  callin'  him  yellah.  That's  all  wrong  with  these 
kinda  guys.  It  don't  stir  'em  up  and  make  'em  go 
after  the  other  guy  hammer  and  tongs  like  the  novels 
claims.  They  get  sore  at  you  and  remember  it  for 
ever  after!  Fin'ly  I  got  a  wild  idea.  I  remembered 
that  dame's  picture  in  the  newspaper  and  what  the  Kid 
had  said  about  goin'  to  New  York.  I  took  a  chance. 

"You're  one  swell-lookin'  baby  for  Miss  Gresham 
to  see !"  I  says  in  his  ear,  sarcastical  as  possible. 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  dazed  way,  not  seemin'  to 
notice  me  callin'  Her  by  name. 

"Why?"  he  mumbles. 

I  held  the  dressin'  room  mirror  in  front  of  him. 


28  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

You  never  seen  such  a  change  come  over  nobody  in 
your  life.  The  Kid  sees  his  eye  in  deep  mournin',  his 
lips  all  purple  and  puffed  outa  shape,  the  bleedin'  gash 
under  the  glim,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  ruined  beauty. 
The  one  good  eye  narrows  to  a  pin  point  and  his  teeth 
comes  together  with  a  click.  He  straightens  up  in  his 
chair  and  glares  across  at  the  leerin'  and  happy  Du 
Fresne  with  the  benevolent  expression  of  a  wounded 
panther  about  to  charge.  The  bell  rings  for  the  lucky 
seventh. 

The  mob  took  up  the  bellowin'  chant  for  a  knock 
out,  and  Du  Fresne  come  slidin'  out  with  a  confident 
grin,  which  faded  with  almost  comical  speed  as  he  got 
that  glare  in  the  Kid's  workin'  eye.  He  faltered  in  his 
stride  and  was  short  with  a  right  to  the  face.  He  com 
menced  to  back  away  and  look  to  his  corner  for  advice, 
and  the  Kid  stepped  in  and  buried  his  right  to  the  wrist 
in  his  stomach.  Du  Fresne's  grunt  could  be  heard  in 
Paris,  and  he  dropped  his  guard  to  protect  that  trem- 
blin'  paunch.  The  Kid  coolly  measured  him,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash  of  startled  light,  brought  up  his  left  for  the 
second  time  in  the  entire  debate.  It  landed  flush  on  Du 
Fresne's  jaw  and  crashed  him  through  the  ropes  into 
the  laps  of  the  newspaper  guys,  as  cold  as  the  middle 
of  Iceland ! 

"Why  didn't  you  pull  that  left  before  ?"  I  demanded, 
tugging  at  the  Kid's  gloves  as  the  perfectly  satisfied 
mob  milled  out  through  the  doors. 

He  gimme  a  odd  grin. 

I  pulled  and  hauled,  but  that  glove  wouldn't  move. 
Fin'ly  I  took  out  my  penknife  and  cut  it  off  his  wrist. 
Then  I  nearly  fell  over  the  ropes  myself.  His  left 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  29 

hand  was  a  ugly-lookin'  purple  and  swelled  to  twice 
its  size. 

"I  broke  a  bone  or  two  when  I  idiotically  hit  that 
steam  pipe  before  the  fight  to-night,"  he  explains  cheer 
fully.  "That's  why  I — eh — rather  favored  it  after 
ward!" 

Imagine  goin'  into  a  fight  with  a  broken  hand! 
Imagine  knockin'  a  two-hundred-and-fif  teen-pound  guy 
out  with  it! 

"But — but,"  I  splutters,  "why  did  you  go  through 
with  the  scrap  if  you  knew  that,  you  darn  fool !  Why 
didn't  you  say  somethin'?  We  could  of  called  it  off 
and—" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  thought  you  would  do,"  he 
smiles,  "and  I  couldn't  afford  to  have  that  happen.  To 
be  frank  with  you,  I'm  broke!" 

He  looks  around  curiously.  "Where's  Carney?"  he 
asks.  "He  said  some  things  to  me  I'd  like  to  take  up 
with  him"  His  voice  was  hard  again. 

"Oh,  don't  mind  Dummy,"  I  says.  "He  got  a  tough 
break  to-night — lost  the  best  scrapper  in  his  stable !" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!"  he  says.    "Influenza?" 

"Nope — inexperience!"  I  tells  him.  "Well,  let's  get 
outa  here,  hey?" 


ROUND  TWO 
"WITH  THIS  RING  I  THEE  FED!" 

THE  ability  to  take  a  unmerciful  beatin'  has  made 
many  a  box  fighter  famous  which  had  absolutely 
nothin'  else  to  recommend  him.  Ring  records  all  the 
ways  down  from  the  time  Battlin'  David  knocked  One 
Round  Goliath  for  a  goal  is  studded  with  the  names  of 
these  gluttons  for  punishment  whose  motto  is  a  steal 
from  the  Salvation  Army's  "A  man  may  be  down,  but 
he's  never  out!"  Their  favorite  punch  is  delivered 
with  some  part  of  their  battered  face  to  the  point  of 
the  other  guy's  glove,  and  they  seldom  if  ever  miss. 
They  may  never  become  champs ;  in  fact,  the  plurality 
of  these  babies  is  usually  about  tenth-raters,  but  they'll 
always  be  in  demand  at  fancy  prices  because  the  differ 
ence  between  the  modern  prize-fight  fan  and  the  cuckoos 
which  used  to  sit  around  Nero  and  holler  for  the  gladi 
ators  to  quit  stallin'  and  knife  each  other  has  stopped 
at  the  matter  of  dress.  The  average  follower  of  the 
manly  art  insists  that  his  favorites  be  guys  of  red 
blood — in  fact,  he  carries  his  enthusiasm  to  the  point 
where  he  wants  to  see  'em  covered  with  it! 

Few  of  these  here  "iron  men" — even  the  handful 
which  has  slugged  their  way  to  the  top  of  the  heap — 
knows  any  more  about  scientific  boxiri  than  a  hen 

30 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  31 

does  about  tooth  powder.  They  can  tell  the  referee 
from  a  right  cross,  and  they  know  that  every  time  a 
bell  rings  whilst  they  are  in  the  ring  they  are  allowed 
to  sit  down  for  a  minute  and  wonder  why  the  other  guy 
was  allowed  to  come  in  with  a  hatchet;  but  the  real 
fine  points  of  their  trade  means  zero  to  them.  They 
are  in  there  to  take  it,  and  take  it  they  do  with  a  set, 
silly  grin  on  their  puffed  lips  which  has  taken  the  heart 
outa  many  a  better  fighter  who's  slashed  'em  to  ribbons 
and  punched  his  arms  off  tryin'  to  drop  'em  for  the 
long  count. 

Some  of  them  human  shock  absorbers  has  held  titles 
for  a  brief  spell  in  the  different  divisions  and  has  been 
very  popular  with  the  mob.  Any  fighter  which  will 
keep  on  gettin'  up  every  time  he  kisses  the  canvas,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  both  his  eyes  has  observed  the 
one  o'clock  closin'  law,  his  nose  is  away  outa  line,  and 
a  ear  is  floppin'  nonchalantly  in  the  breeze,  is  bound  to 
make  a  hit  with  the  customers.  He's  prolongin'  the 
thrill  of  the  thing  and  givin'  the  crowd  a  gallop  for  its 
shekels.  Their  unanimous  opinion,  screamed  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs,  is  that  he's  a  terrible  boob — but  the 
sight  of  his  gore  has  appealed  to  their  "sportin'  "  in 
stincts,  and  on  the  way  home,  in  the  cool  of  the  evenin', 
they  shake  their  heads  admirin'ly  and  tell  each  other 
what  a  great  scrapper  he  is  at  that !  Jess  Willard,  for 
instance,  made  more  friends  by  staggerin'  blindly  to 
his  feet  from  the  crimson-flecked  mat,  after  each  of 
his  seven  knockdowns  in  the  first  round  by  the  jovial 
Jack  Dempsey,  than  he  did  when  he  flattened  Johnson 
for  the  championship  of  the  world. 

I'm  always  as  nervous  as  a  steam  drill  when  I  send 


32  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

one  of  my  star  battlers  in  against  them  choppin'  blocks. 
On  the  level,  they're  less  worry  when  they're  fightin'  a 
clean,  hard  puncher  which  is  fast  and  clever.  In  the 
first  place,  these  bums  makes  your  boy  look  bad  to  the 
crowd.  They  usually  got  a  awkward,  clumsy  defense 
that  makes  'em  difficult  to  slam  in  a  spot  which  will 
send  'em  down  for  the  night,  and  after  you  have 
punched  one  of  these  bimbos  from  pillar  to  post  round 
after  round,  changin'  the  outlines  of  his  face,  but  not 
his  determination  to  stay  the  limit,  the  mob  gets  the  idea 
that  you  can't  hit,  and  they're  off  you ! 

Many  a  promisin'  youngster  has  had  his  hopes 
wrecked  right  at  the  start  by  one  of  them  human  dere 
licts  of  the  ring — them  guys  whose  only  claim  to  fame 
is  that  they  can  take  it !  The  ambitious  kid  tears  into 
'em  with  everything  he's  got,  and  in  a  coupla  rounds 
he's  pounded  'em  to  a  pulp,  but  still  they  keep  comin' 
in  for  more.  Every  time  he  flattens  'em  they  bounce 
up  like  a  rubber  ball,  till  fin'ly  the  kid  begins  to  get 
discouraged.  The  disappointed  crowd  is  givin'  him 
the  raspberry,  demandin'  the  knock-out  they  paid  to 
see.  His  confidence  fades,  and  he  soon  starts  won- 
derin'  if  he's  lost  his  wallop.  He's  hit  this  tramp  so 
hard  and  often  that  it's  like  liftin'  a  coupla  tons  of  lead 
to  raise  his  arms,  and  now  his  hooks  and  jabs  appar 
ently  ain't  even  shakin'  the  other  guy  up.  In  despera 
tion  the  kid  throws  science  to  the  winds  and  comes  in 
wide  open,  both  hands  workin'  for  that  grinnin'  bat 
tered  jaw — that  red  leer  that  dances  before  his  face. 
This  is  what  the  tramp  has  waited  all  night  for !  Not 
havin'  landed  a  dozen  clean  wallops  himself,  he's  com- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  33 

paratively  fresh.  He  feels  the  sting  leavin'  the  kid's 
frantic  punches ;  he  sees  he's  losin'  heart  by  his  shif tin', 
worried  eyes,  and  the  next  minute  the  crowd  is  on  its 
feet,  goin'  crazy,  as  this  bloody  wreck  tears  in,  smashes 
the  f alterin'  kid  with  a  wild  haymaker,  and  it's  all  over ! 

Them  guys  is  prouder  of  their  capacity  for  takin'  a 
maulin'  than  Dempsey  is  of  his  record  as  a  knocker- 
out.  Their  cauliflower  ears,  busted  noses,  and  dented 
faces  is  to  them  the  Croix  de  Guerre  of  their  trade. 
A  example  of  this  was  Bat  Nelson,  which  held  the 
lightweight  title  against  some  of  the  greatest  boxers 
that  ever  fought  in  that  class,  for  no  other  reason  on 
earth  than  the  fact  that  them  guys  broke  their  hearts, 
and  frequently  their  hands,  tryin'  to  put  him  away. 
Bat  used  to  brag  that  he  wasn't  human,  and  for  a  long 
time  it  looked  like  that  was  the  answer.  If  he  could 
box,  I  can  make  a  automobile.  He  rarely  come  out 
of  a  scrap  without  lookin'  like  he  had  been  run  through 
a  meat  chopper — the  worst  tramps  which  ever  stuck 
their  hand  in  a  glove  used  to  paste  him  with  everything 
but  the  box  office,  and  then  when  they  was  so  tired 
they  couldn't  even  feint  him,  the  grinnin',  gore-covered 
Bat  would  step  in  and  knock  'em  for  a  goal. 

This  class  of  fighter  is  duck  soup  for  the  babies 
which  claims  the  prize  ring  brings  out  gameness  that 
would  make  a  paralyzed  arctic  explorer  or  a  legless 
deep-sea  diver  seem  faint-hearted.  They  point  to  these 
guys  gettin'  up  after  each  knock-down,  ripped  and 
slashed  to  pieces,  blinded  by  their  own  blood,  but  still 
borin'  in  bravely  for  more  punishment.  Well,  I  don't 
doubt  that  a  lotta  these  boys  has  showed  more  courage 
than  a  sightless  bullfighter,  but  my  own  experience  has 


34  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

been  that  this  here  same  courage  is  in  most  cases  more 
a  matter  of  temperament  than  anything  else.  The 
roughneck,  boneheaded  slugger  gets  slammed  all  over 
the  ring  and  fin'ly  floored.  He's  half  in  a  trance,  and 
he's  only  got  a  faint  idea  of  what  it's  all  about;  but 
his  legs  mechanically  raises  him  upright  again  without 
no  effort  of  his  dazed  brain  at  all,  because  they  been 
doin'  that  same  thing  for  years.  The  intelligent  boxer, 
knocked  kickin'  by  a  wallop,  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
usin'  his  head  to  think  with,  and  said  head  is  now 
ringin*  like  a  set  of  chimes.  The  crazy  yells  of  the 
crowd  comes  to  him  like  the  boom  of  a  roarin'  surf, 
his  glassy  eyes  rolls  around  inquirin'ly,  and  in  the  ten 
seconds  it  takes  him  to  clear  his  dome  and  try  to  figure 
what  he'll  do  when  he  gets  up  he's  counted  out  and 
often  called  yellah.  Nine  times  outa  ten  this  baby's 
just  as  game  as  the  other  guy,  or  gamer — he's  built 
temperamentally  different,  that's  all! 

My  idea  of  the  real  gamester  is  the  bird  which  can't 
take  it  and  knows  he  can't,  but  takes  his  chance  with 
the  toughest  the  game  can  produce  in  his  efforts  to  get 
to  the  top !  The  guy  with  the  glass  jaw  or  the  weak- 
muscled  stomach  that's  gotta  win  quick  or  not  at  all. 
The  nervous,  imaginative  baby  which  takes  more  men 
tal  punishment  in  his  corner  waitin'  for  the  first  bell 
than  he  ever  does  from  any  guy's  gloves  and  that's 
gotta  lick  himself  before  he  even  faces  the  cuckoo  in 
the  other  corner.  The  kind  that,  if  he  fought  eighty- 
six  times  a  day  every  day  in  the  week,  would  never  get 
over  the  soul-tearin'  torture  of  the  sneerin',  howlin' 
mob  around  the  ring,  the  sight  of  blood,  the  glarin' 
calcium  over  his  head,  the  jarrin'  impact  of  fist  on 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  35 

bone,  the  possibilities  in  the  other  guy's  left — but  still 
sets  himself,  steadies  his  tremblin'  knees,  and  goes  in 
to  kill  or  get  killed  with  a  grin  on  his  chalk-white  face ! 

You  might  say  a  guy  like  that  don't  belong  in  the 
ring.  Then  neither  did  them  kinda  babies  belong  in  the 
trenches;  neither  do  they  belong  anywheres  in  life! 
Didn't  we  all  kinda  lick  our  dry  and  tremblin'  lips  a 
little  shaky  like  in  the  zero  hour  over  there  ?  Ain't  they 
a  mob  of  us  which  ain't  beyond  bitin'  our  nails  a  bit 
whilst  waitin'  for  any  of  life's  Big  Crashes  to  come? 
But,  Sweet  Mamma,  when  them  temperamental  boys 
does  get  under  way !  A  flash  at  the  dope-book  on  any 
sport,  profession,  trade,  gift,  art,  science,  or  bad  habit 
will  show  you  what  happens  then ! 

I  made  one  of  them  guys  heavyweight  champion  of 
the  world — how  'bout  that? 

After  Kid  Roberts  had  won  his  first  professional 
fight  by  knockin'  out  Young  Du  Fresne  in  Sandusky, 
we  have  to  lay  aside  the  gloves  for  a  spell  on  account 
of  the  Kid  havin'  busted  them  small  bones  in  his  left 
hand.  Some  weeks  after  that  quarrel  the  Kid  comes 
up  one  mornin'  to  our  mutual  room  in  the  worst  hotel 
in  Sandusky,  which  is  the  equivalent  to  sayin'  the  worst 
hotel  in  the  world.  He  holds  up  his  invalid  hand. 

"All  healed,"  he  says,  wavin'  it  at  me.  "I'm  ready 
to  box  again.  Pack  up  your  stuff,  we're  going  to  New 
York !" 

I  walked  over  and  examined  his  paw  with  the  great 
est  of  care.  It  still  looked  swollen  and  ugly  to  me. 

"Better  give  it  another  week  to  set,  Kid,"  I  says. 
"If  you  bust  it  again,  it's  liable  to  tie  us  up  for  a 


36  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

coupla  months,  and  the  bank  roll's  punch  drunk  already. 
Why,  I'd  gamble  you  couldn't  hit  hard  enough  with 
that  left  right  now  to  crack  a  vacant  eggshell !" 

The  Kid  presents  me  with  a  pleasant  grin  and  com 
mences  lookin'  around  the  room.  Over  in  the  corner 
is  a  long  board  which  with  a  iron  I  have  borreyed  from 
our  genial  landlord  for  the  sensational  purpose  of 
pressin'  my  suit.  Still  grinnin',  the  Kid  picks  it  up, 
leans  it  at  a  angle  against  the  wall,  grabs  a  towel  from 
the  washstand,  and  makes  a  coupla  turns  of  it  around 
his  left  hand.  Before  I  can  jump  across  the  room 
and  grab  him  he  has  stood  off  and  split  that  board  in 
two  with  a  punch! 

"Now,"  he  remarks,  tossin'  the  towel  on  the  bed 
and  reachin'  underneath  for  his  suit  case,  "we  have 
that  all  settled!  You  hustle  down  to  the  depot  and 
find  out  what's  the  next  train  for  New  York.  You 
might  as  well  get  the  tickets  and  sleepers  while  you're 
there  too." 

"With  what?"  I  asks,  makin'  him  a  gift  of  a  sar- 
castical  smile. 

He  swings  around  and  looks  at  me  kinda  puzzled. 
"Why — ah — we  have  something  like  a  hundred  dol 
lars,  haven't  we?"  he  says. 

"Somethin'  like  it,  sure!"  I  agrees,  reachin'  in  a 
pocket  and  pullin'  out  a  bill.  "Here's  us !"  I  says, 
showin'  it  to  him.  "This  is  somethin'  like  a  hundred 
berries,  only  it's  unfortunately  got  a  ten  on  it  in  the 
corners  instead  of  a  hundred.  Still,  as  you  say,  it's 
somethin'  like  a  hundred — same  color,  same  size, 
same — " 

"Where's  all  the  money  you  had  last  night  when 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  37 

you  went  down  to  pay  our  hotel  bill?"  he  demands, 
shuttin'  me  off  with  a  glare. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "it's  like  this :  I  run  into  a  bevy  of 
traveling  salesmen  in  the  lobby,  and  one  word  led  to 
the  other.  If  I'd  only  had  brains  enough  to  quit  at 
two  this  a.  m.,  I'd  of  been  three  hundred  men  to  the 
good,  but  that  last  baby  shook  a  nasty  pair  of  dice!" 

Kid  Roberts  drops  his  suit  case  and  sinks  down  on 
the  bed,  first  havin'  the  foresight  to  hurl  both  pillows 
and  the  busted  ironin'  board  at  me. 

"And  the  funny  part  of  it  is,"  I  goes  on,  duckin' 
the  above  utensils  and  cheerfully  lightin*  a  cigarette, 
"I  forgot  to  pay  the  hotel  bill !" 

"Oh,  that's  the  funny  part,  eh?"  he  snarls,  gettin' 
up  and  approachin'  me  with  a  three-alarm  fire  in  each 
eye.  "Well,  I'm  going  to  pound  you  into  a  jelly — 
see  if  you  can  get  a  laugh  out  of  that !" 

"Behave!"  I  says,  slidin'  gracefully  back  of  the 
bureau.  "Don't  let's  get  silly  and  partake  of  vulgar 
fistycuffs.  If  I  didn't  know  you  could  take  me,  I 
wouldn't  be  managing  you;  but  maulin'  me  will  get 
neither  of  us  nowheres.  I  got  in  that  African  golf 
tourney  because  I  thought  I  could  grab  off  enough 
doubloons  to  take  us  into  New  York  right.  The 
breaks  went  against  me  and  them  guys  gypped  me  and 
made  me  lose  it — that's  all !  Ain't  you  ever  did  nothin' 
foolish?" 

He  stops  short  and  scowls  at  me  for  a  minute,  and 
then  all  of  a  sudden  his  exceedin'ly  handsome  face 
clears  and  that  good-natured  kid  grin  of  his  makes  me 
acquainted  with  all  his  lovely  white  teeth. 

"You're  right,  old  man!"  he  laughs,  slappin'  me  on 


38  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  back.  "I — I  beg  your  pardon  for  losing  my  temper. 
I'm  so  infernally  anxious  to  get  back  to  New  York 
that  I —  Oh,  hang  it,  man — I've  simply  got  to  be 
there  by  the  end  of  the  week !" 

He  walks  over  to  the  window  and  stares  out  at  San- 
dusky,  tappin'  a  nervous  foot  on  the  floor  and  bitin' 
his  lip.  I  stretched  out  comfortably  on  the  so-called 
bed  and  give  forth  the  impression  that  I  was  readin* 
the  mornin'  paper.  In  the  reality  I  was  watchin'  him. 
I  liked  that  kid — you  couldn't  help  it !  He  got  closer 
to  me  in  the  time  we  punched,  argued,  stalled,  and 
lucked  our  way  into  a  world's  championship  than  any 
fighter  I  ever  had  in  my  stable.  Big,  clean,  and  as 
pleasin'  to  the  eye  as  a  sunset  anywheres  west  of  Chi 
cago,  his  whole  appearance  fairly  shrieked  class!  He 
looked  as  much  like  a  prize  fighter — then — as  I  re 
semble  Mary  Pickford,  and  I  knew  he  was  doin'  a 
piece  of  deep  thinkin'  as  he  stood  there  at  that  window 
lookin'  through  the  greasy  panes  out  into  the  dirty  little 
alley  which  run  back  of  this  alleged  hotel.  Think  of 
the  stuff  that  must  of  been  gallopin'  through  that  high- 
strung  kid's  mind.  He'd  been  the  most  popular  guy  in 
his  college,  a  kind  of  a  tin  god  to  the  other  birds  which 
had  carried  him  off  on  their  shoulders  from  dozens 
of  tracks  and  football  fields.  He'd  run  through  as 
many  pieces  of  eight  as  Captain  Kidd  ever  seen;  he'd 
belonged  to  clubs  where  even  the  waiters  hadda  be 
descended  from  deck  hands  on  the  Mayflower;  he'd 
been  used  to  evenin'  clothes,  soft  lights,  music, 
and  the  maddenin'  smiles  of  pretty  women,  after  6 
p.  m.,  instead  of  a  pair  of  trunks  and  boxin'  gloves  and 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  39 

the  reekin'  din  of  a  cheap  fight  club.  He'd  exchanged 
a  suite  at  the  Ritz  with  one  of  them  trick  valets  to 
button  his  collar  and  fix  his  "bawth"  for  a  scraggy 
hole  in  a  twelfth-class  hotel — as  up  against  it  as  Ru 
mania,  and  with  a  roughneck  like  me,  which  hardly 
spoke  his  language,  for  a  companion.  A  drop,  hey  ? 

As  I  lamped  him  over  the  top  of  my  paper  I  won 
dered  what  else  he'd  gave  up.  Was  they  by  any 
chance  a — 

"What's  the  mad  rush  to  New  York  for,  Kid?" 
I  yawns  suddenly.  "A  Jane?" 

He  give  a  start  like  a  frightened  deer.  He  was 
always  like  that,  even  in  the  ring — a  blur  of  flashin', 
quick,  nervous  moves.  He  couldn't  sit  down  five  min 
utes  in  a  room.  In  the  course  of  a  ordinary  conversa 
tion  I  bet  he'd  walk  ten  miles  back  and  forth  across 
the  floor,  remindin'  you  of  a  tiger  in  a  cage  at  the  zoo. 
It  used  to  make  me  uneasy  and  restless  watchin'  him, 
on  the  level ! 

Now  he  lets  forth  a  sigh  and  comes  away  from  the 
window.  Instead  of  answerin'  my  question,  he  stops 
opposite  me  and  says  :  "Are  you — eh — married  ?" 

"Me?"  I  grins.  "No — I  got  that  bump  over  my 
right  eye  fallin'  downstairs  whilst  a  child."  Then  a 
sudden  thought  hit  me  like  a  wallop  on  the  jaw. 
"Say!"  I  yells,  jumpin'  up.  "You  ain't  thinkin'  of — 
you  ain't  gonna  get  wed  on  me?" 

The  Kid  smiles  and  pats  my  arm. 

"Calm  yourself,"  he  says.  "The  most  colossal  ass 
in  the  world  would  hesitate  at  doing  that  without  a 
penny  to  his  name." 

"Yeh?"  I  sneers.     "Evidently  you  never  seen  the 


40  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

East  Side  in  New  York !  But  answer  me  this,  whilst 
we  are  on  the  fascinatin'  subject  of  wedlocks.  I  have 
gave  you  the  low  down  on  myself  from  the  time  I  seen 
my  first  rattle  up  to  as  late  as  last  night.  I  ain't  tryin' 
to  jimmy  into  your  most  intimate  affairs,  but  is 
they — is  they  a  girl  ?" 

I've  seen  chorus  girls  bitin'  their  tongues  for  hours 
at  a  time  to  perfect  a  natural  blush  like  this  big  Kid 
pulled  then.  He  let  go  my  arm  and  pulled  over  a  chair, 
sat  down — a  rare  trick  for  him — and  gimme  the  works. 

The  dame's  name  was  no  less  than  Irene  Gresham, 
and  her  beloved  parents  had  a  bank  roll  which  wouldst 
make  Jack  Rockefeller  look  like  a  public  charge. 
Apart  from  that  annoyin'  detail,  they  was  headliners 
in  this  continuous  vaudeville  of  society,  indigo  blooded 
and  with  a  pedigree  that  not  even  a  race  horse  could 
be  ashamed  of.  Kid  Roberts,  or  Kane  Halliday,  as  the 
butlers  was  wonted  to  announce  him  previous  to  the 
time  he  hit  the  skids,  was  merely  engaged  to  this  gold 
mine,  that's  all!  Now  the  Kid  had  a  few  blue  cor 
puscles  chasin'  each  other  through  his  veins  himself, 
and  when  it  come  to  ancestors,  he  was  no  Adam,  but 
— broke  and  a  prise  fighter — Sweet  Mamma,  where 
did  he  fit  now  ! 

When  things  was  breakin'  right  for  him,  and  his 
old  man  had  as  many  chips  as  the  rest  of  'em,  he  had 
contracted  to  escort  this  charmer  to  the  conventional 
altar.  It  was  a  kinda  cut-and-dried  arrangement,  with 
the  articles  drawed  up  by  the  parents  of  both  victims, 
and  the  Kid  hadn't  seen  his  intended  lifelong  sparrin' 
partner  since  he  left  college,  on  the  account  of  her 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  41 

bein'  a  habitue  of  Europe.  She  had  come  back  the 
week  before,  and  that's  why  the  Kid  was  keen  to  flee 
to  New  York.  He  wanted  to  get  the  thing  straight — 
put  all  the  cards  on  the  table,  face  up.  Whether  they 
still  thought  so  highly  of  each  other  that  nothin' 
short  of  matrimony  wouldst  cure  'em,  he  didn't  know. 
That's  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  find  out.  All  the 
boys  and  girls  he  used  to  play  with  when  he  was 
steppin'  out  thought  he  was  a  civil  engineer  right 
now  somewheres  out  in  the  West,  or  the  like,  and  the 
Kid  was  very  naturally  wonderin'  what  wouldst  be 
the  effect  on  love's  young  dream  when  the  fair  Irene 
heard  he  was  a  leather  pusher. 

"Well,"  I  says,  when  he  got  it  all  off  his  chest 
and  looked  half  relieved  and  half  sorry  for  tellin'  me, 
"they's  only  one  way  we  can  absorb  enough  pennies 
to  get  en  route  for  the  bustlin'  little  hamlet  of  New 
York,  and  that's  for  you  to  bounce  some  boloney 
at  this  fight  club  here.  Since  you  knocked  that  Du 
Fresne  turkey  dead,  you  oughta  be  a  card  at  the  local 
abattoir,  so  if  you'll  amuse  yourself  countin'  how 
many  Smiths  they  is  in  the  city  directory,  or  the  like, 
I'll  prowl  over  there  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

"Fine!"  says  the  Kid.  "Just  remember  that  we've 
got  to  have  at  least  one  hundred  dollars.  I'll  box 
anyone  they  can  get  for  that!" 

Two  years  later  the  Kid  was  gettin'  about  a  hun 
dred  bucks  a  punch.  What  changes  time  does  bring, 
as  the  ex-kaiser  is  wonted  to  remark! 

I  found  the  match  maker  for  the  local  club  heavily 
engaged  in  a  conference  with  some  of  the  directors. 


42  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

The  conference  was  on  the  subject  of  dollar-limit 
stud  poker,  and  was  bein'  held  in  the  back  room  of  a 
liquor  bazaar,  this  bein'  in  the  days  when  it  was  not 
a  felony  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  a  bartender.  I 
waited  till  he  win  a  pot  with  three  aces,  two  of  which 
he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  slip  himself  from  the 
bottom  of  the  deck,  and  then  I  called  him  out  to  the 
bar,  purchased,  and  made  known  my  modest  wants. 

"I  might  be  able  to  let  this  tramp  of  yours  work 
Friday  night  at  the  regular  show,"  he  says  fin'ly. 
"How  much  sugar  are  you  tryin'  to  git  for  him?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "solely  on  the  account  of  you  bein' 
so  unusually  polite  and  obligin',  we'll  take  a  five- 
hundred-buck  guarantee  and  battle  anybody  you 
throw  into  the  ring!" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  he  cackles  with  the  greatest  of  sar 
casm.  "Try  and  git  it !  I  wouldn't  give  five  hundred 
bucks  to  stage  Cain  and  Abel  with  a  set  of  strange 
wildcats  for  a  preliminary!  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do, 
and  whether  you  take  it  or  not  may  make  some  differ 
ence  to  the  board  of  aldermen  of  Bolivia,  but  it'll  make 
no  difference  to  me.  I'll  slip  you  two  hundred  berries 
for  ten  frames  with  Special  Delivery  Kelly,  provided 
that  big  boloney  of  yours  stays  the  limit.  If  Kelly 
stops  him  before  the  fifth  round,  which  is  no  doubt 
what'll  happen,  you  don't  git  a  nickel !  Gimme  a 
argument  and  the  whole  thing's  off — how  'bout  that?" 

"We'll  gamble!"  I  says  after  a  minute  of  decidin' 
that  for  me  to  slam  this  cuckoo  wouldst  get  me  nothin'. 
"But  just  as  a  matter  of  simple  curiosity,  without  tryin' 
to  delve  into  your  private  affairs,  what's  this  Special 
Delivery  Kelly  gettin'  outa  this  homicide?" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  43 

The  match  maker  grunts  and  waggles  the  cigar  in 
his  mouth. 

"I'll  give  him  a  pocketful  of  tickets  for  the  show," 
he  says.  "And  he  gits  a  reward  of  four  bits  on  every 
one  he  sells,  besides  his  guarantee  of  twenty  berries, 
win,  lose,  or  police — which  is  enough  for  the  big 
tramp!  You  can  work  out  in  the  club  gym  if  you 
wanna,  and  lemme  give  you  a  tip — this  Kelly  ain't 
never  been  knocked  out,  and  he  swings  a  nasty  right. 
It  wouldn't  surprise  me  the  slightest  particle  if  he 
stopped  that  baby  of  yours  in  a  round !" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I'm  a  bettin'  fool  myself,  and  them 
two  hundred  men  we're  gonna  get  won't  pay  our  laun 
dry  bill  here.  I'll  lay  you  my  end  of  the  gate  at  even 
money  that  Kid  Roberts  knocks  Special  Delivery 
Kelly  dead !  Do  you  fade  me  ?" 

"You're  faded!"  he  grins.  "If  your  guy  flattens 
Kelly — not  outpoints  him,  remember;  he's  gotta 
knock  him — you  git  four  hundred;  if  he  do  not,  you  git 
the  raspberry !  Why — " 

"And  that's  all  settled,"  I  shuts  him  off.  "Now 
where  can  I  get  a  flash  at  this  Kelly  person?" 

He  presents  me  with  a  full-toothed  smile  and  turns 
back  to  the  poker  tourney. 

"Go  over  to  the  Acme  Boiler  Works  any  time  be 
tween  eight  in  the  mornin'  and  four-thirty  in  the 
afternoon,"  he  says.  "Ask  anybody  and  they'll  point 
out  Kelly.  He's  knowed  as  Paddy  over  there;  but 
the  minute  he  gits  in  the  ring  with  that  meal  ticket 
of  yours,  you'll  both  find  out  why  they  call  him  'Special 
Delivery' !" 

Whilst  I  was  palely  ruminatin'  over  the  interestin' 


44  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

fact  that  I  was  gonna  send  my  kid  in  against  a  tough 
boiler  maker  named  Paddy  Kelly,  which  had  likewise 
earned  the  ring  title  of  "Special  Delivery,"  I  happened 
to  glance  around  and  I  seen  the  match  maker  and 
his  boy  friends  lookin'  after  me  and  laughin'  as  if 
their  hearts  wouldst  break.  I  give  vent  to  a  shiver 
and  leaned  over  to  the  bartender. 

"Have  somethin'  yourself,"  I  says.  "Ah — eh — 
what  kind  of  a  mauler  is  this  guy  Kelly?" 

"Tough!"  he  says,  shakin'  his  head  from  the  one 
side  to  the  other.  "Terrible  tough!  He  don't  know 
nothin',  but  brother,  he  can  hit  like  one  of  them 
pneumatical  sledges,  and  he's  a  pig  for  chastisement. 
He's  mingled  with  all  the  good  ones,  and  none  of  'em 
could  do  a  thing  with  him  in  the  regards  to  a  knock 
out.  They  all  half  killed  Kelly,  but  he  was  still  in 
there  swingin'  with  'em  at  the  final  bell.  It  looks 
to  me  like  that  green  kid  of  yours  is  scheduled  for  a 
pastin' !" 

"It  looks  to  me  too !"  I  says,  and  proceeded  on  my 
way. 

I  drilled  back  to  the  hotel  as  cheerful  as  a  yegg  on  his 
way  to  get  sentenced,  but  I  managed  to  bring  forth 
a  smile  for  the  Kid.  I  told  him  I  had  grabbed  a  set 
up  for  him  named  Kelly  which  called  himself  "Special 
Delivery"  because  he  went  out  so  quick,  cleverly 
leavin'  the  slight  detail  that  I  had  bet  our  end  of  the 
purse  on  a  knock-out  out  of  the  conversation. 

That  Friday  night,  at  the  bewitchin'  hour  of  ten, 
Kid  Roberts  climbed  through  the  ropes  at  the  Cres 
cent  A.  C.  of  Sandusky,  accompanied  by  me  and 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  45 

a  dinge  middleweight  I  had  hired  for  two  bucks  to 
help  handle  him.  The  mob  give  the  Kid  a  mild  greetin', 
and  then  down  the  aisle,  through  the  haze  of  smoke, 
comes  what  I  thought  at  first  was  Washington's  Mon 
ument  with  a  bath  robe  on.  It  turned  out  to  be  nothin' 
less  than  Special  Delivery  Kelly,  which  Kid  Roberts 
is  soon  gonna  be  versus.  The  second  the  customers 
piped  him  I  thought  the  roof  of  the  clubhouse  was 
comin'  off,  and  for  all  I  know  it  did!  Everybody  in 
the  joint,  includin'  a  leather-lunged  delegation  of  hon 
est  hearts  and  willin'  hands  from  the  boiler  works, 
climbs  up  on  their  chairs  and  lets  forth  three  hun 
dred  rousin'  cheers  for  Monsieur  Kelly,  which  said 
gent  acknowledges  by  several  noncommittal  short  bobs 
of  his  bullet  head  and  a  coupla  ferocious  scowls  at  our 
corner.  If  this  cuckoo  wasn't  a  yard  over  six  foot, 
then  I'm  the  next  king  of  France,  and  his  weight  was 
announced  at  a  triflin'  240.  I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief 
when  I  heard  that.  I  had  him  figured  at  about  940! 
His  hair  was  shaved  down  close  to  the  temple  of 
knowledge  on  top  of  his  neck  like  he  had  not  five 
minutes  ago  completed  a  course  in  Sing  Sing,  and 
what  I  take  it  for  granted  was  his  face  give  him  the 
startlin'  appearance  of  a  guy  which  had  devoted  the 
best  part  of  his  life  to  fightin'  buzz  saws  with  it. 
The  top  of  one  ear  was  elsewhere.  Oh,  Special 
Delivery  Kelly  was  one  tough-lookin'  young  man,  I'll 
inform  the  hemispheres! 

"Good  Lord — what  a  beast!"  gasps  the  Kid  after 
one  flash.    "He  looks  like  a  gorilla !" 

I  says  nothin',  but  my  personal  idea  was  that,  along 
side  of  Kelly,  a  gorilla  would  look  like  a  chorus  girl. 


46  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Whilst  I  am  bandagin'  the  Kid's  hands  and  my 
dinge  helper  is  whisperin'  sweet  nothin's  in  his  ears  to 
take  his  mind  off  the  crowd,  the  air  is  filled  with 
shriekin'  demands  for  Kelly  to  murder  him.  My  boy 
is  pale  and  nervous  like  as  of  yore,  head  down  and 
both  feet  shufflin'  restlessly  back  and  forth  in  the  rosin. 
He  kept  wettin'  his  dry  lips  with  a  shakin'  tongue  and 
tappin'  the  ropes  with  his  hands,  every  now  and 
then  glancin'  out  at  that  ocean  of  sneerin'  faces  around 
him  and  then  quickly  turnin'  his  head  away  again. 
He  was  takin'  a  terrible  lickin',  and  no  one  knew  it 
better  than  me,  right  whilst  he  sat  there  in  his  corner 
and  waited  for  the  festivities  to  commence.  He  had 
nothin'  on  his  mind  but  that  girl  Irene,  his  future, 
whether  this  bird  wouldst  mark  him  up  or  not,  what 
wouldst  happen  when  they  all  found  out  back  home 
that  he  was  a  prize  fighter,  and,  likewise,  what  wouldst 
happen  when  one  of  Special  Delivery  Kelly's  hamlike 
fists  bounced  off  his  face.  Yellah?  You  never  seen 
him  work.  Once  the  bell  rung  it  was  all  different, 
and  that  nervous  energy  slipped  right  out  through 
his  pumpin'  gloves.  Temperament — that's  all !  This 
big  ourang  outang  Kelly  sit  sprawled  out  in  his  corner, 
kiddin'  with  friends  around  the  ringside  about  the  pink- 
cheeked  dude  on  the  other  side  without  another  care  in 
the  wide,  wide  world ! 

Fin'ly  I  step  over  to  Kelly's  corner  to  have  a  flash 
at  his  bandages.  One  look  was  enough !  I  whistled 
to  the  referee.  "Why  don't  you  give  this  guy  a  ax 
and  be  done  with  it?"  I  says,  pointin'  to  Kelly's  hands. 
His  seconds  is  try  in'  frantically  to  get  the  gloves  on 
before  I  can  crab  it. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  47 

"What's  the  matter?"  sneers  the  referee.  "They 
let  'em  use  tape  in  Ohio.  This  here's  supposed  to  be 
a  fight,  not  a  one-step!" 

I  reached  down  and  yanked  up  one  of  Kelly's  hands 
before  he  had  a  idea  of  what  it  was  all  about.  "See 
that  white  dust  on  top  of  the  tape?"  I  yells.  "Well, 
I  know  plaster  of  Paris  when  I  see  it,  fellah,  and 
we  come  from  New  York,  not  Crabapple  Crossin'. 
This  baby  is  figurin'  on  buryin'  his  hands  in  the  water 
bucket,  and  that  plaster  will  harden  up  in  a  minute  till 
it'll  be  the  same  as  if  Kelly  had  a  rock  in  each  hand. 
Take  'em  off  or  we  don't  fight !" 

"Strip  them  bandages !"  growls  the  referee  to  Kelly's 
handlers.  "We  got  a  dumb-bell  from  the  State  Boxin' 
Commission  out  in  front."  He  wheels  and  glares  at  me. 
"That  ain't  gonna  git  you  nothin',  wise  guy,"  he  grunts. 
"Kelly '11  make  that  ham  of  yours  jump  over  the  ropes !" 

A  fine,  fair-minded  referee,  hey? 

The  announcer  steps  to  the  center  of  the  ring  and 
holds  up  his  hand,  immediately  causin'  the  well-known 
deathly  silence  to  fall  upon  the  house  except  for  such 
hot-blooded  admirers  of  the  manly  art  which  can't  con 
trol  themselves  now  that  the  red  slaughter  is  actually 
about  to  commence. 

"Final  star  bout  of  the  evenin' !"  bawls  this  guy. 
"Ten-round  exhibition — "  he  turns  and  points  to  our 
corner — "over  here,  Kid — " 

"Kelly  first !  Kelly  first !"  roars  the  mob,  dancin'  up 
and  down. 

The  Kid  was  halfway  up  from  his  stool.  He  give 
a  short,  jerky  laugh  and  sit  down  again. 


48  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"Over  here" — goes  on  the  announcer,  waggin'  a 
finger  at  the  other  corner — "over  here,  Sandusky's 
favorite  Irish- American  heavyweight,  which  always 
gives  the  best  they  is  in  him — Special  Delivery  Kelly !" 

Sweet  Mamma! 

They  bang  the  chairs  on  the  floor,  hurl  their  hats  in 
the  air,  shriek,  whistle,  pound  their  feet  up  and  down, 
and  seven  guys  gets  hysterical  and  embraces  each  other. 

The  announcer  favors  us  with  a  sympathetic  grin. 

"Over  here,"  he  says,  noddin'  to  the  Kid,  "New 
York's  promisin'  young  contender  for  the  heavyweight 
champeenship — Kid  Roberts !" 

A  few  scattered  handclaps  for  us. 

I  whisk  the  bath  robe  off  the  Kid,  knead  his  stomach, 
and  rub  his  eyes,  whilst  the  dinge  wiped  him  dry  and 
kept  whisperin' :  "Don't  let  him  stall  you,  white  boy — 
'at  Special  Delivery  thing  don't  mean  nuffin' !"  Then 
he  starts  snappin'  his  fingers  over  to  Kelly's  corner. 
"We  spots  you  fifty  pounds  and  we  takes  you!"  he 
shouts.  "Was  punches  dollars  you'll  be  Vanderbilt  in 
side  of  one  second !  Ah  shoots  ten  dollars  we  knocks 
you  daid !  Ah — " 

The  bell  cuts  him  off,  and  we  jump  down  under  the 
ropes. 

"Get  this  guy,  Kid,  and  get  him  quick  !"  was  my  final 
instructions  to  the  Kid  as  with  a  slap  on  the  shoulder 
I  turned  him  loose. 

The  thing  hadn't  gone  a  minute  when  I  seen  that 
Special  Delivery  Kelly's  only  idea  was  to  stay  the  limit. 
The  Kid,  all  the  nervousness  gone  now  that  he  was  in 
there  workin',  felt  his  man  out  a  bit  and  then  proceeded 
to  beat  him  from  pillar  to  post — it  wasn't  no  fight,  it 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  49 

was  murder  in  the  first  degree !  Roberts  tried  hard  to 
connect  with  a  solid  smash  that  would  end  it,  but  Kelly 
was  the  wildest  thing  I  ever  seen  this  side  of  Borneo, 
and  when  he  wasn't  reclinin'  on  the  mat  he  was  divin' 
head  first  into  a  clinch  and  roughin'  my  boy  with  that 
extry  forty-odd  pounds  of  bone  and  muscle.  The  ref 
eree  give  him  all  the  chance  in  the  world  to  hang  on, 
scrape  the  Kid's  back  against  the  ropes,  and  wrestle 
him.  That  and  the  generous  counts  he  got  durin'  the 
four  times  he  kissed  the  canvas  was  the  only  things 
which  saved  Kelly  from  goin'  to  bed  in  round  one. 

The  Kid  ran  grinnin'  to  his  corner  at  the  bell  with 
his  golden  blond  hair  scarcely  mussed.  The  house  was 
in  a  uproar.  "That  fellow's  sheer  strength  is  remark 
able,  but  he's  not  a  boxer!"  says  Roberts  to  me.  "I'll 
end  it  in  the  next  round — I'm  not  going  to  punish  him 
any  more." 

But  he  had  to  do  it — much ! 

Kelly  came  slowly  out  for  the  second  round,  a  piti 
ful  sight.  The  Kid  had  chopped  him  to  pieces  in  the 
first  three  minutes,  and  his  hairy  body  was  stained  a 
deep  crimson  down  to  his  trunks.  Suddenly  he  rushed 
viciously,  landin'  a  right  and  left  to  the  body  that  sent 
Roberts  crashin'  into  the  ropes  gaspin'  and  drove  the 
mob  insane.  As  Kelly  lumbered  in  close  to  finish  him, 
the  Kid  caught  him  with  a  left  uppercut  to  the  heart 
that  could  be  plainly  heard  in  Siam,  the  lightin'  right 
cross  to  the  jaw  that  followed  sprawlin'  Kelly  on  the 
lower  rope.  He  was  up  at  "six,"  pawin'  blindly  in  the 
air,  but  carryin'  on  smartly,  and  the  Kid  coolly  circled 
around  him,  his  flashin'  left  forever  in  Kelly's  battered 
face.  Three  times  more  Special  Delivery  Kelly  dived 


50  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

to  the  mat,  and  each  time  he  staggered  to  his  feet 
spatterin'  gore  on  the  reporters,  with  the  crowd  a  pack 
of  maniacs.  Right  before  the  bell  the  Kid  turns  to  the 
referee  and  asks  him  to  stop  it,  but  that  guy  shakes  his 
head  and  motions  him  to  go  on.  With  a  dyin'  flurry 
Kelly  rushed  again,  drivin'  a  jarrin'  right  swing  to  the 
head,  but  the  Kid  drove  him  back  on  his  heels  with  a 
beautifully  timed  left  hook,  and  as  Kelly  bounced  off 
the  ropes  Roberts  put  both  hands  to  the  face,  dumpin' 
him  on  his  back  in  his  corner  as  cold  as  a  Eskimo's 
front  yard.  The  kind-hearted  referee  took  plenty  of 
time  with  the  count  so's  to  give  Kelly  a  chance  to  get 
up  and  take  some  more,  but  the  bell  at  "nine"  saved 
him.  His  handlers  hadda  lift  him  up,  drag  him  to  his 
stool,  and  hold  him  straight  on  it,  still  peacefully 
slumberin'. 

When  the  Kid  come  to  his  corner  I  started  to  slap 
him  on  the  back  and  shake  his  glove,  but  he  waved  me 
off. 

"I'm  through!"  he  pants.  "I'm  not  going  in  there 
and  hit  that  poor  devil  any  longer.  This  isn't  a  con 
test  ;  it's  wanton  brutality !  That  fellow  hasn't  a  chance 
with  me,  and  he's  been  punished  enough.  Get  me  some 
one  else  and  I'll  box  him  the  rest  of  the  ten  rounds  so 
we'll  get  our  money,  or  have  the  referee  stop  this  thing. 
I'm  not  a  murderer !" 

"He'll  never  be  able  to  answer  the  next  bell,"  I  says 
soothin'ly.  "He's  as  dead  as  Napoleon  right  now.  You 
just  step  to  the  middle  of  the  ring  at  the  gong  and  we 
cop!" 

I  slipped  down  under  the  ropes  and  shoved  my  way 
through  the  howlin'  mob  on  the  en  route  to  the  box 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  51 

office  to  collect  our  four  hundred  fish.  Two  hundred 
wages  and  two  hundred  I  win  from  the  jovial  match 
maker  on  a  knockout.  As  I  get  to  Kelly's  corner  they 
is  about  a  dozen  guys  workin'  over  him,  one  of  which 
is  no  less  than  my  old  pal,  the  match  maker  himself. 
He's  givin'  Kelly's  manager  a  terrible  bawlin'  out  and 
jabbin'  a  bottle  of  ammonia  up  under  what's  left  of 
Kelly's  nose.  Kelly  is  layin'  back  against  the  ropes, 
both  eyes  closed — one  of  which  the  Kid  attended  to — 
dead  to  the  world. 

"Pay  me !"  I  hollers  at  the  match  maker. 

"Not  yet,  you  fathead!"  he  snarls  with  a  odd  look, 
and  then  I  see  they  have  got  one  of  Kelly's  gloves  off. 
In  a  flash  the  genial  match  maker  pulls  a  penknife  from 
his  pocket,  rips  open  a  blade,  and  shoves  the  point  up 
under  the  quick  of  Kelly's  thumbnail.  Kelly  jumps 
halfways  off  the  chair  with  a  yell  of  pain,  and  the  crowd 
goes  batty  again.  The  lion-hearted  iron  man  is  comin' 
back !  A  nice,  clean  sport,  hey  ? 

When  the  gong  clanged  for  the  third  session  I  had 
to  fairly  throw  Kid  Roberts  into  the  center  of  the  ring. 
He  was  sick  of  slaughter  in'  this  baby,  but  the  watchin' 
mob  figured  he  was  gettin'  faint-hearted,  and  they  yell 
for  Kelly  to  let  him  fall.  Roberts  shakes  his  head 
disgustedly  and  ties  into  this  totterin',  half-blind  wreck 
with  the  idea  of  gettin'  it  over  as  quick  as  possible.  He 
forces  Kelly  to  lead  and  takes  a  light  left  to  the  face; 
then  he  sets  himself  and  floors  the  boiler  maker  with 
a  long  right  swing.  Up  bounces  this  unhuman  cave 
man  only  to  crash  down  again  from  a  volley  of  lefts 
and  rights  to  the  body.  This  time  he  took  "nine"  before 


52  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

arisin'  and  collapsin'  over  the  ropes,  both  hands  hangin' 
useless  at  his  side.  They  is  some  yells  to  "Stop  it!" 
but  the  referee  slaps  the  Kid  on  the  back  and  hollers : 
"Go  on,  fight,  or  I'll  disqualify  you — you  big  dough- 
hearted  tramp!"  The  Kid  shoulders  him  away,  hesi 
tates  a  minute,  and  a  sponge  comes  hurtlin'  into  the 
ring  at  Kelly's  feet.  The  fightin'  boiler  maker's  one 
good  eye  observes  it  with  a  trace  of  annoyance,  and 
with  his  last  remainin'  strength  he  kicks  the  sponge 
outa  the  ring  and  paws  feebly  in  the  general  direction 
of  the  Kid.  Roberts  stepped  back  and  made  no  attempt 
to  hit  him,  and  then  Kelly's  handlers  swarm  in  and 
drag  their  man  to  his  corner,  where  he  flops  like  a  sack 
of  wheat,  mumblin'  that  he  never  felt  better  and  still 
weakly  strugglin'  to  stand  up  and  scrap. 

The  roarin'  crowd  mills  into  the  ring,  and  the  Kid 
walks  over  to  Kelly's  corner,  shakes  his  hand,  and 
tells  him  he's  the  gamest  man  he  ever  saw  with  a  pair 
of  boxin'  gloves  on.  Kelly  shoves  a  coupla  handlers 
away  and  sticks  up  his  pulpy  face.  "Yer  a  dom  good 
man,"  he  grunts,  the  one  workin'  eye  glarin'  at  each 
and  all,  "but  I'd  have  licked  ye  in  another  round.  Ye 
niver  would  have  stopped  Paddy  Kelly!  I've  taken 
mannys  the  worse  batin'  thin  I  got  to-night,"  he  adds 
proudly.  "Why  Young  Horgan  bruk  three  of  me  ribs 
and  divvil  a  count  I  tuk !"  He  suddenly  peers  over 
the  ropes.  "Where's  that  blackguard  which  manages 
me  and  brung  down  on  me  head  the  disgrace  of 
havin'  a  foight  stopped  that  a  Kelly  was  in?"  he 
roars. 

Special  Delivery  Kelly's  pilot  pushes  forward,  kinda 
nervous.  "Tough  luck,  Paddy,"  he  mutters.  "But  we 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  53 

can't  finish  in  front  all  the  time !  Brace  up  now,  you'll 
be  all  right  in  a  coupla  days,  and — " 

"All  right,  is  ut?"  bawls  Kelly,  pullin'  himself  to  his 
feet  by  the  ropes.  "And  did  ye  iver  see  a  Kelly  that 
wasn't  all  roight?" 

"You  tell  'em !"  grins  the  manager,  still  a  trifle  un 
easy.  "Now — " 

"Shut  up,  ye  divilish  banshee !"  howls  Kelly.  "'Twas 
you  that  stopped  the  foight,  they  tell  me." 

"Yes,"  mumbles  the  manager,  backin'  away.  "I 
stopped  it  so — 

"Stop  this,  thin!"  yells  Special  Delivery  Kelly,  and 
lets  go  with  all  he  had  left  on  that  baby's  jaw ! 

That  Kelly  was  tough,  hey? 

Well,  after  payin'  off  hithers  and  yon  in  Sandusky, 
and  gettin'  fitted  for  a  set  of  tickets  to  N.  Y.,  I  have  a 
even  hundred  and  twenty-five  berries  left  of  the  four 
hundred  we  accumulated  from  the  extermination  of 
Monsieur  Kelly.  I  divided  this  with  the  Kid,  givin' 
him  the  twenty-five,  and  the  minute  we  have  hired 
parkin'  space  for  ourselves  at  a  Manhattan  hotel  he 
disappears.  I  hunted  for  him  all  afternoon,  but  he 
might  as  well  of  been  vice  president,  because  nobody 
had  laid  a  eye  on  him  or  heard  anything  about  him. 

In  the  midst  of  my  search  I  run  into  a  billiard  palace 
which  is  a  hangout  of  mine  when  I  am  in  this  burg 
which  electric  lights  made  famous.  It  is  called  a  billiard 
palace  for  the  reason  that  billiards  is  about  the  only 
thing  which  ain't  played  there.  I  play  a  race  at  Havana 
and  do  myself  $250  worth  of  good,  and  then  I  sidle  on 
to  the  rear,  where  a  exhibition  of  the  gallopin'  domi 
noes,  or,  to  get  technical,  a  crap  game,  is  bein'  had.  In 


54  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

two  hours  I  have  ran  the  $250  up  to  $900,  and  in  five 
hours  I  ain't  got  a  nickel,  and,  in  the  addition  to  this, 
I  have  lost  my  watch.  I  tried  to  borrey  $20  on  my 
contract  with  Kid  Roberts  and  was  laughed  outa  the 
joint.  I  have  raised  $10,000  on  that  same  scrap  of 
paper,  since. 

How  the  so  ever,  when  I  fin'ly  get  back  to  our  inn, 
the  Kid  is  sittin'  on  the  bed  waitin'  for  me.  When  he 
ain't  been  walkin'  the  floor  he's  been  playin'  solitaire 
— a  combination  that  drives  some  guys  crazy  and 
makes  others  sane.  I  asked  him  did  he  see  his  girl 
friend,  and  he  says  on  the  contrary,  but  he  had  the  boon 
of  a  long  interview  with  her  male  parent  on  that  iden 
tical  subject,  and  it  looked  like  the  bottom  had  fell  outa 
his  stock  as  a  comin'  son-in-law.  The  old  man  thought 
the  Kid  was  a  trcs  bien  guy,  and  he  was  sorry  his  father 
had  been  careless  enough  to  go  broke,  but,  as  the  French 
says,  what  would  you?  Perhaps,  if  they  waited  100 
years,  it  wouldst  be  all  different.  Maybe  by  then  the 
Kid  would  have  some  standin'  as  a  civil  engineer  and 
his  father  wouldst  likewise  have  dug  up  another  roll 
somewheres,  but  right  now — well,  you  got  the  rest  of 
it,  hey  ? 

The  Kid  had  carefully  neglected  to  mention  that  he 
had  turned  into  a  leather  pusher.  He  wanted  to  see 
how  the  sight  of  this  Jane  affected  him  before  the 
show-down. 

The  show-down  come  quicker  than  either  of  us  ex 
pected  it ! 

The  next  mornin'  I  get  the  information  that  no  less 
than  Dummy  Carney  is  in  New  York  yellin'  murder 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  55 

about  me  havin'  the  Kid  now  that  Roberts  looked  like 
a  comer.  Well,  as  I  remarked  before,  we  are  paupers 
again,  so  I  figured  on  diggin'  up  Dummy  and  sellin' 
him  a  piece  of  the  Kid's  contract  for  enough  to  room 
and  board  us  till  we  got  a  fight.  That  night  Kid  Rob 
erts  was  gonna  rent  a  set  of  evenin'  clothes  and  find 
out  from  Miss  Irene  Gresham  how  the  course  of  true 
love  was  runnin',  if  at  all,  and  I  was  gonna  do  the  same 
with  Dummy  Carney,  without  the  evenin'  clothes. 

Then  things  happened  very  fast ! 

I  insisted  on  the  Kid  doin'  a  little  road  work  that 
mornin',  both  to  ease  his  nerves  a  bit  and  also  to  keep 
him  conditioned  in  case  we  got  a  chance  to  fill  in  over 
in  Jersey  that  week.  We  are  runnin'  through  Central 
Park — the  Kid  with  that  long,  easy  stride  which  brung 
home  the  lovin'  cups  and  the  etc.  at  college,  and  me 
puffin'  along  in  the  rear  with  the  pantin'  gait  which 
come  from  the  years  I  have  dallied  with  the  other  cups. 
Along  around  Eighty-sixth  Street  they  is  a  auto  worth 
a  steamfitter's  ransom  stuck  at  one  side  of  the  road, 
and  a  gayly  bedecked  chauffeur  is  changin'  a  tire.  As 
we  slow  down  to  get  around  it,  Kid  Roberts  stops  sud 
denly  and  goes  white. 

"Irene !"  he  kinda  gasps. 

As  my  name  has  at  no  time  been  Irene  I  look  around 
inquiringly  and  gaze  upon  a  strange  and  interestin' 
sight. 

They  is  a  Jane  sittin'  in  the  back  of  that  car,  and  she 
is  regardin'  Kid  Roberts  with  a  mixture  of  about 
thirty-eight  different  expressions,  of  which  contempt 
is  away  in  the  lead.  She's  a  bcaucoup  looker  all  right, 
but  beautiful  the  same  way  them  marble  statues  is — 


56  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

perfect  and  cold.  The  Kid  is  standin'  there  goin'  red 
and  white  by  turns  under  this  silent  inspection  which 
seems  to  have  tied  his  tongue  up  too.  He  had  on  a 
ragged  cap,  a  torn  and  form'ly  white  sweater,  a  old, 
dirty  pair  of  courduroy  pants,  and  a  pair  of  runnin' 
shoes.  The  lady  fair's  icy,  glitterin'  eyes  takes  in  every 
detail  of  that  outfit,  and  she  gets  further  below  zero 
with  each  second.  One  of  the  Kid's  eyes  has  a  little 
mouse  under  it  and  his  left  cheek  bone  is  hid  by  a  strip 
of  court  plaster,  the  result  of  Special  Delivery  Kelly's 
dyin'  efforts.  A  split  lip  ain't  had  a  fair  chance  to  heal 
yet,  and  by  the  time  this  girl's  gaze  reached  the  Kid's 
face  it  was  so  cold  I  shivered  where  I  was  standin'. 
The  Kid  fin'ly  pulls  himself  together  and  seems  to 
be  gulpin'  out  somethin',  and  I  step  away  so's  I  won't 
get  my  ears  in  where  they  don't  belong.  As  I  do  some 
body  slaps  me  on  the  back  and  snarls :  "I  been  lookin' 
all  over  for  you,  you  rat !  You're  a  fine  guy,  you  are — 
what  d'ye  mean  by  stealin'  my  fighter  from  me,  hey  ?" 

Dummy  Carney's  purplin'  face  is  shoved  over  my 
shoulder  at  the  auto. 

"Oh,  there's  the  big  bum,  hey?"  he  growls,  and, 
throwin'  my  hands  off,  he  walks  up  to  the  Kid  and  the 
girl.  The  chauffeur  has  changed  the  shoe  and  he  looks 
up  kinda  puzzled.  Kid  Roberts  gets  a  coupla  shades 
whiter  when  he  sees  Dummy  and  tries  to  motion  him 
away.  But  it's  too  late. 

"You  big  stiff !"  roars  Carney.  "You  fight  another 
guy  for  anybody  but  me  and  I'll  run  you  outa  New 
York !  Foolin'  around  with  a  skirt,  hey,  instead  of 
lookin'  me  up  and — " 

The  sudden  rush  of  blood  was  still  dyein'  the  Kid's 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  57 

face  as  he  clipped  Dummy,  and  that  baby  kissed  the 
turf  without  a  groan. 

"Beast !"  says  the  girl — the  only  word  I  ever  heard 
her  say.  She  motions  to  the  chauffeur.  Exit  Miss 
Irene  Gresham  from  the  life  and  adventures  of  Kid 
Roberts ! 

With  his  cap  in  his  hand  and  his  head  throwed  back, 
the  Kid  stands  starin'  after  the  car.  Then  he  snaps 
his  fingers  with  a  short,  queer  laugh  and  turns  to  me 
a  white,  strained  face,  which  seems  to  have  picked  up 
five  years  somewheres  since  I  seen  it  last. 

"And  there's  that!"  he  says.  "Let's  get  away  from 
here!" 

Carney  begins  showin'  some  signs  of  life,  and  the 
Kid  stops  a  passin'  taxi,  tells  the  brigand  the  hotel, 
jumps  in,  and  pulls  me  after  him. 

"Hey,"  I  whispers  to  him,  "I  ain't  got  a  nickel,  and 
it'll  cost  at  least  two  bucks  to  get  to  the  hotel." 

"There's  every  penny  I  have!"  snarls  the  Kid,  pullin' 
out  a  two-dollar  bill  and  tossin'  it  to  me.  "Pay  it.  Now 
shut  up  and  let  me  alone !" 

From  then  on  that  baby  was  different.  I  don't  know 
just  what  the  change  was — he  was  just  another  guy, 
that's  all !  No  more  did  he  shed  a  tear  over  bein'  forced 
to  clout  the  stiffs ;  he  showed  about  as  much  mercy  as 
the  gentle  Germans  showed  Belgium. 

They  is  a  little  package  and  a  note  for  the  Kid  when 
we  get  to  the  hotel,  and  up  in  the  room  he  opens  it, 
reads  the  note,  and  tears  it  up. 

"There  goes  the  last  link  that  held  me  to  what  used 
to  be !"  he  remarks,  tossin'  the  pieces  out  the  window. 


58  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"I  only  wish  we  had  some  kinda  links  to  hock !"  I 
says.  "Do  you  realize  we  ain't  got  the  price  of  a  re 
built  toothpick  ?" 

Instead  of  answerin',  he  hands  the  little  box  over  to 
me. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  says.  "It  represents  the  end  of 
another  illusion !" 

I  opened  it  and  was  nearly  struck  blind  by  the  dia- 
mondst  diamond  I  ever  seen  in  my  life. 

"Sweet  Mamma!"  I  breathes.  "Who  give  you  this, 
Kid?" 

"The  young  lady  we  met  in  the  park,"  he  says.  "I 
am  now  free  to  pursue  my  heinous  career  without  any 
qualms.  That — er — was  an  engagement  ring.  When 
I  bought  that  my  father  was  worth  a  fortune,  and  I 
paid  eleven  hundred  dollars  for  it.  I'm  glad — in  a  way 
— this  happened.  It  was  the  easiest  way  out  of  a  thing 
that  would  have  been  a  horrible  mistake !" 

"Well,"  I  says,  gazin'  at  the  ring  in  a  trance,  "she 
might  of  at  least — " 

"Not  a  word!"  he  warns  me,  holdin'  up  his  hand. 
"She  is  a  splendid  woman — a  sweet  girl !" 

I  grabbed  for  my  hat  and  held  up  the  ring. 

"And  this  here's  the  sweetest  thing  she  ever  done !" 
I  says.  "Wait  here  and  we'll  eat.  I'll  try  and  get  five 
hundred  on  it !" 

I  was  goin'  down  in  the  elevator  before  he  reached 
the  door. 


ROUND  THREE 
PAYMENT  THROUGH  THE  NOSE 

WHEN  it  comes  to  takin'  punishment  I  am  forced  to 
award  the  brown  derby  to  the  modern  prize-fight  fan. 
Next  to  the  wrestlin'  addict,  the  gent  which  digs  into 
the  rent  money  for  a  ringside  seat  at  the  average  one 
of  these  "return  engagements"  between  the  present  crop 
of  professional  sluggers  stands  alone  as  the  Crown 
Prince  of  dumb-bells.  For  the  example,  one  of  our 
present  champs  has  "fought"  the  nearest  contender  for 
his  crown  a  even  thirteen  times,  with  first  one  and  then 
the  other  winnin'  the  newspaper  decision,  mixin'  in  a 
occasional  "draw"  to  keep  up  the  interest.  Another 
title  holder  has  met  the  ex-champ  in  his  class  eight 
times  in  them  brief,  chummy,  "no  decision"  things,  and 
as  for  the  second-  and  third-rate  heavies — Sweet 
Mamma !  Them  guys  has  a  regular  route  mapped  out 
for  their  act,  with  a  season  which  would  make  a  stand 
ard  vaudeville  team  sob  with  envy.  Why,  girls,  it's 
nothin'  at  all  for  a  pair  of  'em  to  box  each  other  a 
coupla  times  a  week  on  a  trip  around  a  circuit  that  ex 
tends  from  Maine  to  California,  takin'  turns  in  winnin' 
by  a  "shade." 

A  sparrin'  partner  which  has  got  anything  at  all  con 
nected  with  his  head  outside  of  a  tin  ear,  soon  learns  to 

59 


60  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

avoid  disfigurin'  punishment  and  yet  give  his  master  a 
stiff  workout.  In  the  same  way  any  two  professional 
scrappers  which  knows  the  first  thing  about  their  trade 
can  carry  each  other  along  for  a  dozen  rounds  at  a  pace 
which  makes  three- fourths  of  the  customers  think  they 
are  tryin'  to  assassinate  each  other,  whereas  violence  is 
the  farthest  thing  from  their  minds.  The  oftener  they 
meet,  the  more  sensational  they  can  make  the  "bouts" 
look,  because  after  half  a  dozen  such  entertainments 
they  know  each  other's  every  wallop  by  heart  and  could 
prob'ly  stand  up  and  block  each  other  with  their  eyes 
closed. 

Now,  if  amongst  the  billions  in  my  audience  there 
is  a  blown-in-the-flask  box-fight  fan  which  is  hysteri 
cally  rearin'  up  on  his  hind  legs  shriekin'  that  I'm  all 
wrong,  and  what  I  know  about  the  ring  could  be  wrote 
on  a  gnat's  ear,  I  would  like  to  gently  ask  him  why  is 
it  that  there  is  usually  more  genuine  action,  promiscu 
ous  gore,  and  intent  to  kill  in  one  round  of  the  prelim 
inaries  than  there  is  in  the  average  star  bout  of  the 
evenin'  ?  Well,  the  main  and  principal  reason  is  be 
cause  the  $l-a-round  birds  have  to  make  a  fight  of  it 
or  they  don't  get  no  more  work!  Let  them  babies  ease 
up  for  a  minute  and  the  indignant  referee  is  at  their 
pantin'  sides  informin'  'em  that  if  they  don't  show  some 
speed  he  will  take  the  greatest  of  pleasure  in  throwin' 
the  both  of  'em  outa  the  ring.  Then  again,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  it  takes  a  finished  workman  with  the  mitts 
to  stall  so  successfully  that  when  him  and  his  fellow 
artist  apparently  ignores  the  bell  and  keeps  on  sluggin' 
each  other  at  the  end  of  a  round,  the  mob  thinks  it's 


61 


on  the  level  and  goes  delirious.  A  third-rater  cannot 
stall,  even  if  you  rehearse  him  for  a  year.  He  don't 
know  enough  to  slip  inside  what  looks  like  man-killin' 
wallops,  and  when  stung  he  forgets  what  he  was  told 
and  fights!  He's  like  the  boneheaded  but  crack  ball 
player  which  couldn't  throw  a  game  for  a  million  dol 
lars  in  dimes  because  he's  got  no  imagination — he's  a 
machine.  He  can't  make  the  error  which  would  frame 
the  thing  for  the  other  side,  because  once  he's  in  there 
he  remembers  nothin'  but  to  play  ball  to  the  best  of 
whatever  ability  he  has.  It  ain't  particularly  because 
he's  honest;  he's  shy  the  intelligence  to  be  a  first-class 
crook !  The  third-rate  scrapper  is  the  same  way.  Tell 
him  for  a  month  to  rate  the  other  guy  along,  pull  his 
wallops,  and  take  a  occasional  count  to  make  it  look 
good  for  the  "return  bouts,"  and  when  he  climbs  into 
the  ring  he  forgets  all  about  his  instructions  and  goes 
ahead  on  his  own  hook  as  per  usual.  Given  a  fair 
chance,  he'll  innocently  knock  the  other  tramp  for  a 
goal,  and  spoil  him  for  future  and  profitable  use. 

The  fighter  himself  is  in  no  way  responsible  for  the 
conditions  which  surround  box  fightin'  to-day.  Like 
the  exceedin'ly  late  czar  of  the  playful  Russians,  he's 
more  or  less  the  victim  of  circumstances.  Modern  pro 
fessional  boxin'  is  a  business  as  well  organized  as  the 
circus.  As  perpetrated  in  some  of  the  big  burgs,  prize 
fightin'  is  very  close  to  bein'  a  trust.  The  boxers  on 
the  inside  are  carefully  nursed  along,  advertised,  and 
exploited  the  same  as  a  breakfast  food,  patent 
medicine,  or  movie  star,  and  the  tough  ambitious 
outsider  has  the  same  chance  of  bustin'  into  the  large 
money  as  I  got  of  bein'  elected  Queen  of  Montenegro. 


62  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Every  now  and  then  some  newspaper  guy,  with  more 
nerve  than  prospects,  trains  his  typewriter  on  these 
dollar  snatchers  and  pans  the  "return  engagements" 
between  the  leadin'  scrappers  to  a  fare-thee-well.  The 
promoters'  alibi  is  that  they  have  to  rematch  the  head- 
liners,  because  there  is  so  few  young  men  hither  and 
yon  about  the  country  which  is  talented  enough  with 
their  hands  to  give  the  stars  a  battle.  This,  of  course, 
is  36-carat  bunk!  In  every  class,  from  bantam  to 
heavyweight,  there  is  a  half  dozen  earnest,  clever,  and 
bone-crushin'  young  sluggers  which  are  automatically 
barred  off  the  Big  Time  because  they  are  just  that! 
The  champs  don't  wish  no  part  of  these  babies — they're 
too  tough  and  ambitious.  Merciful  Heavens,  no — why, 
them  poor  boobs  wanna  fight! 

These  and  other  present-day  conditions  which  I  will 
take  up  at  our  next  meetin'  is  what  has  stripped  the 
prize  ring  of  the  sentimental  glamour,  sportsmanship, 
and  fair  play  throwed  around  it  by  many  of  our  other 
wise  unhysterical  authors  and  playwrights.  In  days  of 
old,  when  men  was  bold  and  the  like,  perhaps  prize 
fightin'  was  a  he-man's  sport  and  may  have  developed 
courage  and  biceps  in  the  youth  of  the  land.  At  any 
rate,  the  guys  which  traded  wallops  when  John  L.  Sulli 
van  was  the  name  of  a  fighter  at  least  made  a  honest 
attempt  to  earn  their  dough.  They  stood  toe  to  toe  for 
hours  at  a  time  and  battled  more  for  glory  than  any 
thing  else,  and  the  winner  usually  knew  he  had  been 
in  a  brawl  by  the  time  his  handlers  carried  him  outa 
the  ring.  There  was  no  percentages,  bonuses,  or  guar 
antees  in  them  days.  The  purse  was  often  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  coupla  hundred  berries,  and  fre- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  63 

quently  the  guy  which  remained  upright  at  the  finish 
took  it  all ! 

Sweet  Mamma — what  a  difference  now ! 

The  modern  boss  scrapper  picks  his  opponents  as 
carefully  as  Ziegfeld  picks  a  chorus.  He  gets  a  guaran 
teed  sum  somewheres  in  the  thousands  for  a  six-,  eight-, 
or  ten-round  muss  with  some  set-up  which  must  take 
what  he's  handed  for  his  end,  no  matter  if  by  some 
miracle  he  knocks  the  star  kickin'.  Then  again,  if  the 
star  happens  to  be  a  big  local  drawin'  card,  his  victim 
is  at  times  warned  that  if  he  trims  his  man  he  don't 
get  no  more  work  at  that  club.  The  result  is  that  the 
poor  boob  goes  in  against  one  of  them  $5,000  beauties, 
finds  the  mob  all  with  the  native  son,  and  yellin'  for  his 
own  immediate  assassination;  knows  that  if  he  wins, 
draws,  or  loses  his  pay  will  be  the  same ;  remembers 
that  if  he  gets  too  rough  he  will  lose  a  lotta  future 
bouts  at  the  club,  an  therefore  takes  a  lickin',  boostin' 
the  star's  reputation  and,  likewise,  the  star's  price. 

But  occasionally  along  comes  a  handsome  city  chap 
which  upsets  all  the  plans  of  the  gentlemanly  promot 
ers  and  the  athletic  young  business  men  which  calls 
themselves  boxers.  A  tough,  ambitious  baby  will  crop 
up  which,  besides  havin'  a  kick  in  each  hand,  has  also 
got  a  few  ounces  of  brains  in  his  head  and  a  manager 
which  is  not  simply  a  addin'  machine.  A  combination 
like  that  is  carbolic  acid  to  the  boxin'  trust.  Sooner  or 
later  they  gotta  be  taken  in  and  gave  a  crack  at  the  big 
money.  Then  they  either  peg  along,  satisfied  with  the 
soft  sugar  and  takin'  their  turns  at  boxin'  the  other 
members  of  the  lodge,  or  they  go  in  business  for  them 
selves  when  they  get  to  the  top.  That's  what  me  and 


64  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Kid  Roberts  done,  and  that's  how  I  made  him  heavy 
weight  champion. 

Folio  win'  the  wind-up  of  love's  young  dream,  and  my 
return  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice  with  a  handful  of 
the  root  of  all  evil,  Kid  Roberts  shuts  the  door  of  our 
bower  in  the  hotel  and  indicates  by  signs  that  he 
wouldst  like  me  to  be  seated. 

"I  have  fought  twice,"  he  says,  "and  I've  made  some- 
thin'  less  than  a  thousand  dollars." 

"That's  better  than  diggin'  streets,  ain't  it  ?"    I  says. 

"It  won't  do!"  he  tells  me.  "I'm  not  in  this  beastly 
game  for  the  love  of  it — I'm  in  it  because  it  appears  to 
be  the  only  thing  at  which  I'm  skilled  enough  to 
make  big  money.  I'm  going  to  fight  my  way  to  the 
top  of  the  pile  so  that  I  can  demand  enough  for  my 
bouts  to  rehabilitate  my  father  and  myself,  and  then 
I'm  going  to  get  out  of  it.  I'm  not  satined  with  my 
progress  to  date.  I  don't  want  any  more  matches  with 
those  tenth-raters  —  those  battered,  loathsome  brutes 
whose  very  appearance  make  the  Darwinian  theory 
a  base  libel  on  the  monkeys !  I'm  sick  of  pounding 
them  to  a  pulp  for  a  few  dollars.  There's  no  semblance 
of  a  contest  about  those  things;  it's  sheer,  wanton 
brutality.  Go  ahead  and  match  me  with  some  of  these 
so-called  logical  contenders  for  the  heavyweight  cham 
pionship,  or  I'll  be  my  own  manager.  I'm  not  trying  to 
desert  you,  but  I  want  you  to  thoroughly  understand 
that  I  hate  this  game  and  everything  connected  with 
it,  and  the  quicker  I  get  out  of  it  the  cleaner  I'll  feel ! 
I  can't  get  out  until  I've  made  good.  Is  that  clear?" 

"Oh,  easily  that,"  I  says,  "and  I  don't  blame  you  as 
much  as  a  particle  for  wantin'  to  make  money.  There's 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  65 

a  certain  time  in  our  lives  when  all  of  us  gets  that 
feelin',  usually  durin'  the  first  seventy-five  years.  But, 
Kid,  you  gotta  learn  your  trade  and  work  your  way 
up  in  the  fight  game  the  same  as  in  anything  else.  You 
can't  make  a  guy  a  plumber  by  simply  handin'  him  a 
piece  of  lead  pipe  and  a  monkey  wrench.  You're  a 
pretty  good  prospect  right  now,  but  that's  all — just  a 
prospect.  Them  two  fights  you  had  don't  mean  nothin'. 
You  got  a  hefty  kick  in  each  paw,  and  you  seem  to  be 
able  to  take  it,  but  you're  as  green  as  350  Irish  flags. 
You  get  rattled  under  fire,  you  squander  wallops  on 
the  air,  your  defense  wouldn't  puzzle  a  one-armed  blind 
man,  and  you  telegraph  every  clout  you  got  in  stock  be 
fore  you  pull  it.  When  you  get  bounced  you  jump  right 
up  instead  of  takin'  a  count  till  your  head  clears,  and 
you  got  a  bad  habit  of  lettin'  a  punch-drunk  bum  dive 
into  a  clinch  with  you  instead  of  shakin'  him  off  and 
finishin'  him.  Ring  generalship,  that's  what  you're 
minus,  and  the  only  way  you  can  get  it  is  by  experience. 
You  gotta  be  rated  along,  not  rushed.  That's  what  a 
manager's  for.  Many  a  promisin'  kid  has  been  ruined 
at  the  start  by  bein'  overmatched.  As  for  these  guys 
lookin'  like  gorillas — well,  none  of  'em  claims  to  be 
chorus  girls,  and  you  don't  have  to  take  'em  out  to 
dinner — you  get  paid  to  beat  'em  up !" 

The  Kid  ain't  said  nothin'  whilst  I'm  pourin'  this 
into  him,  but  his  face  is  a  movie. 

"If  I'm  as  rotten  as  that,"  he  sneers  fin'ly,  "how  do 
you  account  for  the  fact  that  I  won  my  first  two  pro 
fessional  fights  by  knockouts?" 

"You  licked  a  pair  of  tramps,"  I  says,  "who's  com- 


66  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

bined  knowledge  of  the  art  of  boxin'  could  be  wrote 
on  a  ant's  nose.  You  gotta  long  ways  to  go  yet  be 
fore  I  throw  you  into  a  ring  with  a  fighter!  You'd 
be  a  set-up  right  now  for  the  first  good  man  you  met, 
and  I  ain't  gonna  have  you  knocked  kickin'  yet.  You 
been  shook  and  hurt,  but  you  ain't  never  experienced 
the  delightful  sensation  of  bein'  socked  to  dreamland, 
and  if  I  can  help  it  you  never  will!  A  knockout  right 
now  and  you'd  prob'ly  be  through  with  the  ring — I 
know  you  temperamental  babies ;  I  had  a  stable  full  of 
'em  once." 

He  takes  a  coupla  turns  around  the  room  to  think 
this  over,  and  then  he  stops  and  looks  at  me. 

"What  you  say  may  be  true,"  he  says,  kinda  cold, 
"but  it  doesn't  change  my  decision!  If  I'm  as  bad  as 
that,  then  I'll  never  be  a  success  as  a  fighter,  and  I 
may  as  well  give  it  up  and  try  something  else.  How 
ever,  I  want  a  fair  test  first,  and  I  haven't  had  one  yet. 
Match  me  with  a  good  man  or  I'll  do  it  myself.  That's 
my  last  word !" 

I  seen  the  boy  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  fit  of 
nerves,  and  it  would  be  terrible  silly  to  argue  with  him 
then. 

"C'mon,"  I  says,  "we'll  take  a  walk  around  to  Billy 
Morgan's  gym  and  see  some  of  the  boys  workin'  out. 
Maybe  you  can  pick  up  a  coupla  tricks  for  yourself 
watchin' — " 

"We  have  no  time  to  waste,"  he  cut  me  off.  "I'll 
never  be  a  champion  by  hanging  around  anybody's 
training  quarters." 

"C'mon,  C'mon,"  I  says,  "lay  off  to-day  and  you'll 
be  champion  a  day  later  then — what's  the  difference?" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  67 

Up  at  Billy  Morgan's  I  let  the  Kid  roam  around  at 
will  while  I  tried  to  make  arrangements  to  have  him 
took  on  as  a  sparrin'  partner  for  some  good  guy.  Billy 
gazed  around  the  gym,  where  there  were  half  a  dozen 
of  all  weights  workin'  the  pulleys,  punchin'  the  bag, 
sparrin'  or  shadow  boxin'. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "I  dunno.  There's  not  many  boys 
here  now — most  of  the  big  fellers  is  goin'  around  the 
circuit  outa  town  and  the  like.  Al  Kennedy  is  readyin' 
himself  for  his  quarrel  with  Young  Williams,  but  I 
guess  Al's  a  little  too  tough  for  your  kid,  hey?" 

"You  tell  'em !"  I  says  with  f eelin'.  "My  boy's  only 
started  twict  and  I  ain't  gonna  have  him  cut  up  and 
discouraged  by  that  big  stiff  for  nothin',  that's  a  cinch ! 
By  the  way,  who's  got  Kennedy  now  ?" 

"Heh?"  says  Bill.  "Oh,  Dummy  Carney— he's 
around  here  somewheres  now  with  Rocky  Martin  and 
Sailor  McGann,  them  two  boloneys  of  his.  Say — 
Dummy  oughta  fix  you  up  at  that.  His  guys  is  workin' 
out  here,  and  no  doubt  Dummy  will  ease  your  boy  in 
with  'em.  He's  a  pretty  good  friend  of  yours,  ain't 
he?' 

The  answer  come  from  Carney. 

I  can  see  the  thing  now  as  well  as  if  I  was  standin' 
there  in  Billy's  gym  lookin'  at  it  again.  Dummy  Car 
ney  slouchin'  in  with  his  two  bruisers,  me  gettin'  and 
feelin'  pale  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  gills  when  I  seen 
him,  because  the  last  time  we  bosom  friends  had  met, 
Kid  Roberts  had  knocked  Dummy  flat — and  the  Kid 
watchin'  big  Al  Kennedy  punchin'  the  bag. 

Dummy  is  a  big  man  and  far  from  yellah.     The 


68  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

second  his  eyes  lit  on  the  Kid  he  has  him  by  the 
shoulder  and  swung  him  around. 

"Well,  see  what's  here !"  he  sneers.  "Little  Kewpie, 
the  sassiety  boxer,  hey?"  He  raised  his  voice,  and  some 
of  the  gang  stopped  workin'  to  look.  "Are  you  ready 
to  live  up  to  your  contract  with  me  yet,  you  big  bum  ?" 

The  Kid  puts  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  com 
plexion  turns  a  shade  or  so  lighter. 

"You  deserted  me  in  Sandusky  in  my  first  fight  when 
you  thought  I  was  going  to  be  knocked  out,"  he  says 
pretty  even.  "I  have  no  contract  with  you,  as  I  con 
sider  that  your  yellow  action  automatically  broke  it. 
If  you  make  one  more  insulting  remark  to  me  or  annoy 
me  in  any  way,  I  will  take  great  pleasure  in  knocking 
you  through  that  wall !" 

Dummy'  face  turned  a  unbecoming  shade  of  purple, 
and  he  begin  to  gasp  like  a  newly  captured  trout.  When 
he  fin'ly  succeeded  in  gettin'  a  fresh  grip  on  the  Eng 
lish  language  he  shoo!:  his  fist  in  the  Kid's  face  and 
bellered : 

"You — you — why — don't  you  dare  to  double-cross 
me,  you  boob,  or  you'll  never  get  a  fight  around  New 
York !  Your  contract  called  for  at  least  three  starts 
under  my  management,  and  you'll  go  through  with  it 
or  you  don't  pull  on  another  glove !" 

The  Kid  deliberately  turns  his  back  to  him  and  gazes 
at  Al  Kennedy,  which,  whilst  still  whippin'  the  bag 
around,  has  got  a  attentive  though  battered  ear  open  to 
the  conversation. 

Dummy  let  fall  a  expression  which  is  rarely  heard 
in  a  church  and  wheeled  around  to  his  two  maulers, 
Rocky  Martin  and  Sailor  McGann. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  69 

"Let  him  have  it !"  he  snarls,  half  under  his  breath. 

Me  and  Billy  Morgan  started  over  at  once,  but  we 
was  too  slow.  The  Kid  suddenly  pivoted  around  and 
seen  them  two  pork-and-beaners  comin'  in.  He  didn't 
wait  to  ask  no  questions.  Rocky  Martin  met  a  straight 
left  to  the  face  that  dumped  him  in  a  comical  position 
at  Dummy's  feet,  through  for  the  day.  Sailor  Mc- 
Gann  was  short  with  a  right  to  the  jaw  and  got  a  chop 
on  the  side  of  what  passed  for  his  head  which  immedi 
ately  removed  all  thoughts  of  violence  from  the  same. 
Then  the  Kid  faced  the  frenzied  Dummy. 

"If  my  contract  called  for  three  fights,  you  can  con 
sider  it  filled  now,"  he  pants.  "I  had  one  in  Sandusky 
and" — he  points  to  the  two  reclinin'  gladiators — 
"there's  the  other  two !" 

Wow! 

"Clout  him  too,  kid!"  yells  a  interested  lightweight. 
"I'm  with  you !" 

Big  Al  Kennedy  has  stopped  punchin'  the  bag  and  is 
starin'  over  at  us  with  a  grin  on  his  face.  The  lace  on 
one  of  his  gloves  has  come  undone  and  he  tries  to  tie 
it  with  his  teeth.  Dummy's  face  suddenly  brightens, 
and  he  yells  at  him,  pointin'  to  the  Kid:  "Take  this 
guy  for  me,  Al !" 

I  let  out  a  roar  and  jumped  forward,  but  Dummy 
swept  me  against  the  wall  with  one  walkin'-beam  arm. 
It  made  quite  a  picture.  There's  the  Kid,  white  and 
drawn  with  a  nervous  grin  on  his  lips,  facin'  Kennedy 
and  waitin'.  Dummy  is  snarlin'  and  motionin'  to  his 
hired  man  to  let  one  go,  whilst  the  two  hams  on  the  floor 
rolls  outa  harm's  way  and  the  rest  of  the  gang  quits 


70  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

everything  to  watch.  I  said  a  silent  prayer  and  then 
yelled  to  Billy  Morgan  to  stop  it,  but  the  big  stiff 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  waved  me  away.  Some 
body  dropped  a  pin  and  I  heard  it  hit  the  floor. 

Then  Al  Kennedy  walks  over  to  the  Kid,  which  don't 
give  way  a  inch.  Al  looks  up  and  down  coolly  and 
turns  to  Dummy,  his  manager :  "Where  d'ye  get  that 
stuff?"  he  growls.  "What's  the  idea  of  askin'  me  to 
slough  this  guy  for  yuh,  hey?  If  you  want  him  beat 
up,  get  some  of  them  bums  which  is  hangin'  round  here 
lookin'  for  exercise — what  d'ye  think  /  am,  a  rough 
neck?  I'll  box  him  for  pennies — sure,  but  them  gang- 
fight  days  is  over,  get  that?"  He  holds  up  the  glove 
with  the  loose  string  under  the  Kid's  nose.  "Here, 
kid,"  he  says  in  a  offhand  way,  "tie  that  up  for  me, 
will  yuh?" 

Kid  Roberts  dropped  his  half-raised  hands  and  give 
a  short  laugh. 

"Certainly !"  he  says  politely,  and  damned  if  he  didn't, 
whilst  Dummy  let  forth  a  howl  and  collapsed  in  a  chair. 

A  week  after  that  me  and  Kid  Roberts  traveled  over 
to  the  Never- Say-Dry  country  of  New  Jersey  and  seen 
Al  Kennedy  put  Young  Williams  out  in  six  rounds. 
The  fight  was  a  dude  whilst  it  lasted,  both  men  bein' 
seasoned  campaigners  and  both  in  line  for  a  crack  at 
the  title.  Kennedy  had  everything,  includin'  a  nasty 
straight  left  which  Williams  was  unable  to  keep  his  face 
off  of,  and  Kennedy  used  that  to  wear  his  man  down 
till  fin'ly  a  well-timed  right  cross  to  the  button  gave 
Williams  a  one-way  ticket  to  dreamland. 

The  Kid  watched  the  brawl  like  it  was  the  first  one 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  71 

he  ever  seen,  and  never  for  a  minute  did  his  eyes  leave 
the  shifty,  bone-crushin'  Kennedy.  When  that  guy 
stepped  from  the  ring  after  the  melee,  without  even  his 
hair  mussed,  and  the  mob  yellin'  itself  hoarse,  I  turned 
to  Kid  Roberts. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "are  you  satisfied?  There's  one  of 
the  good  men  you  wanna  meet,  and  you  seen  him  work 
to-night!  You  know  this  Williams  is  anything  but  a 
bum,  yet  he  was  duck  soup  for  Kennedy.  What  chance 
would  you  have  against  a  guy  like  that  now?" 

His  answer  was  nothin'. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  the  Kid  broke  a  long 
silence.  "Have  you  made  a  match  for  me  yet?"  he  says. 

"I  expect  to  close  to-morrow  with  Dave  Kane,  which 
has  the  Newark  club,"  I  says.  "We'll  get  a  eight-round 
preliminary  with  some  pushover  in  a  week,  I  guess." 

"Guess  again !"  snaps  the  Kid.  "My  next  bout  will 
be  with  Al  Kennedy." 

"A  good  stiff  headache  powder  will  fix  you  right 
up,"  I  says  soothin'ly. 

"Either  you  get  me  Kennedy  or  I  get  him  myself," 
he  says,  "and  that's  final !  If  I  beat  him,  I'll  be  in  line 
for  a  match  with  the  champion;  if  he  beats  me,  I'm 
through.  I  watched  every  move  he  made  to-night,  and 
I'm  confident  I  can  take  his  measure.  I'm  big  enough 
to  whip  any  man  I  can  hit,  and  one  thing  is  certain — 
Kennedy  will  never  stick  that  left  in  my  face  as  he  did 
with  Williams.  I  haven't  got  a  permanent  mark  to 
show  that  I'm  a  prize  fighter,  and  I  never  will  have,  you 
can  rest  assured  of  that !" 

"I  could  rest  even  more  assured  if  you'd  forget  about 
fightin'  Kennedy !"  I  says.  "Now  listen  to  me,  son — 


72  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

apart  from  the  fact  that  you  ain't  got  a  Chinaman's 
chance  with  this  guy,  I  don't  know  of  any  club  which 
would  put  the  match  on.  The  only  way  we  could  get 
the  fight  is  because  Dummy  Carney  would  be  tickled 
silly  to  have  you  flattened  on  account  of  him  losin'  you. 
But  they'd  be  no  dough  in  it — you  don't  mean  nothin' 
around  here,  understand?  And — 

"That's  what  I  have  a  manager  for,"  he  interrupts. 
Your  job  is  to  make  my  name  mean  something  here 
until  I  get  a  fight.  Now  get  busy  and  use  your  imag 
ination,  or  I'll  go  it  alone!" 

Well,  we  argued  back  and  forth  till  the  inmates  of 
the  adjoinin'  rooms  got  sick  of  the  thing  and  threatened 
reprisals,  and  the  night  clerk  called  up  with  the  infor 
mation  that  they  was  runnin'  a  hotel  and  not  a  dance 
hall.  At  three  in  the  a.  m.  we  called  it  a  night  after  the 
Kid  had  agreed  to  fight  one  tramp  before  Kennedy,  and 
I  had  promised  to  make  his  name  as  well  known  as 
Georgie  Cohan's  in  and  around  Manhattan. 

The  Kid  bein'  young,  healthy,  and  care  free  was  un 
conscious  a  minute  after  he  hit  the  hay,  but  I  laid 
awake  gazin'  at  the  ceilin'  for  quite  some  space  tryin' 
to  dope  out  a  scheme  that  would  get  us  tres  bicn  pub 
licity  and  beaucoup  pennies.  Along  around  the  time 
they  shoot  you  in  the  army — sunrise — I  got  it,  and  a 
little  while  later,  when  I  heard  Kid  Roberts  splashin' 
around  in  the  bathroom,  I  bust  in  on  him  and  revealed 
all. 

At  first  he  registered  the  greatest  of  disgust,  but  as 
I  continued  on  with  the  layout  his  face  cleared,  and 
when  I  wound  up  outa  breath  he  slaps  me  on  the  back 
and  grins. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  73 

"Great !"  he  hollers.  "Old  man,  you  should  have 
been  a  press  agent.  When  I  become  champion  and 
leave  the  ring  to  enter  business,  I'll  engage  you  as  pub 
licity  man !" 

"Yeh?"  I  sniffs.  "Well,  that's  horrible  nice  of  you 
— only  if  you  ever  win  the  title  /  expect  to  own  at 
least  half  of  that  business  you're  gonna  enter!" 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  chasin'  all  over  the  isle 
of  Gotham  from  the  one  end  to  the  other  try  in'  to  dig 
up  the  necessary  dough  to  put  my  stunt  over.  Late 
that  night,  as  they  say  in  the  movies,  I  had  begged, 
borreyed,  and  gypped  myself  a  $500  bank  roll,  and  Kid 
Roberts  had  met  "the  most  wonderful  girl  in  the 
world !"  or,  in  the  other  words,  Estelle  Van  Horn,  one 
of  the  merry  villagers  in  "The  Girl  and  the  Cream 
Puff."  This  was  the  Kid's  second  attempt  to  put  over  a 
romance  with  himself  as  the  leadin'  man.  He  made  a 
dozen  wild  stabs  at  the  thing  which  drives  the  poets  wild 
before  along  come — but  we'll  get  around  to  that  later. 

The  campaign  to  make  Kid  Roberts  as  popular  as 
matrimony  begin  with  me  takin'  him  down  to  a  swell 
photographer's  and  havin'  him  snapped  in  half  a  dozen 
poses,  wearin'  ring  togs  and — a  mask.  This  was  nothin' 
more  than  a  piece  of  black  silk  with  eyeholes,  which 
fitted  over  the  top  of  his  face,  makin'  it  practically 
impossible  to  identify  him.  Likewise,  it  was  part  of 
my  scheme  to  make  him  stand  out  from  the  mob  and 
get  him  talked  about.  Then  I  started  the  rounds  of 
the  newspaper  offices  with  him. 

My  story  was  this:  Kid  Roberts  was  a  millionaire 
college  guy  which  refused  to  give  out  his  real  name 
and  wore  a  mask  in  the  ring  so's  his  high  society  pals 


74  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

couldn't  discover  the  double  life  he  was  leadin*.  In 
the  afternoons  he  attended  receptions  and  the  like, 
flauntin'  a  mean  teacup,  and  at  night  he  give  himself 
over  to  fisticuffs,  swingin'  a  nasty  left  hook.  He 
never  accepted  as  much  as  a  thin  dime  for  his  serv 
ices,  because  he  was  in  the  game  for  the  love  of  it 
alone,  not  to  mention  his  ambition  to  become  cham 
pion.  I  had  him  throw  out  chance  remarks  about  his 
"cars"  and  his  "country  place"  with  a  occasional 
mention  of  "the  yacht,"  and  whilst  some  of  the  wise- 
guy  sport  writers  grinned  and  invited  us  to  take  the 
air,  most  of  'em  eat  the  stuff  up  and  hollered  for 
more.  Havin'  once  been  a  habitue  of  Yale,  the  Kid 
was  easily  able  to  make  the  college-boy  thing  sound 
good,  and  as  for  the  millionaire  end  of  it,  well — Kid 
Roberts  looked  and  acted  more  like  a  million  dollars 
than  two  $500,000  bills.  He  throwed  handfuls  of 
poetry  at  'em,  slipped  in  a  slice  of  O.  Shaw,  Rudyard 
Longfellow,  John  G.  Shakespeare,  Washington  Irving 
Berlin,  and  all  them  old  masters  of  the  English  lan 
guage. 

They  was  one  sportin'  editor  which  tried  out  the 
Kid  on  a  coupla  dozen  tough  questions  in  order  to 
prove  was  he  really  a  highbrow,  and  Kid  Roberts  was 
never  even  extended,  comin'  back  with  a  flow  of  words 
which  would  make  a  Boston  high-school  teacher  take 
carbolic.  Fin'ly  they  get  on  the  subject  of  boxin', 
and  with  regard  to  a  knockout  the  Kid  explains  it 
like  thus : 

"The  jawbone  strikes  hard  upon  the  thin  plate  of 
bone  supporting  the  delicate  labyrinth  of  the  inner  ear, 
and  the  bony  portion  thereof  is  driven  upward  into  the 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  75 

glenoid  cavity  of  the  skull.  This  shocks  the  semicircu 
lar  canals,  and  this  shock  is  in  turn  transmitted  to  the 
bulbs  producing  dizziness,  nausea,  and  momentary 
paralysis !" 

The  sport  writer  fell  over  a  copy  boy  in  a  trance 
and  the  next  day  we  got  a  column  in  his  sheet,  with 
pictures. 

But  I  didn't  stop  at  that.  With  some  of  the 
dough  I  had  excavated,  I  hired  the  Kid  a  swell-lookin' 
bus,  a  chauffeur,  and  a  guy  with  a  uneyform  like  a 
Turkish  admiral  to  open  the  doors.  A  sparrin'  part 
ner  passed  as  a  valet.  Then  I  commenced  takin'  Kid 
Roberts  and  this  layout  around  to  all  the  fight  clubs, 
where  he  regularly  challenged  the  champion  and  got 
introduced  from  the  ring.  He  never  failed  to  be  a  riot 
for  the  reason  that  he  climbed  through  the  ropes  in 
a  dizzy  dress  suit  and  the  mask,  escorted  by  the  alleged 
valet  which  took  his  coat,  hat,  and  gloves  whilst  he 
bowed  to  the  crowd  and  thanked  'em  for  their  appre 
ciation.  You  can  always  get  attention  with  some- 
thin'  new  whether  you're  in  Succotash  Corners  or 
Times  Square,  and  as  this  had  never  been  done  before 
we  was  rarely  off  the  sportin'  page.  By  the  time  he 
was  ready  to  fight  Owney  Griggs,  who  I  had  hand- 
picked  for  him  as  a  workout  before  he  committed 
suicide  by  facin'  Al  Kennedy,  I  had  established  Kid 
Roberts  as  a  card  and  we  went  on  in  a  main  bout  for 
a  $700  guarantee.  I  had  no  trouble  arrangin'  with 
the  club  managers  to  give  out  that  we  was  fightin'  for 
nothin.  As  long  as  I  filled  the  house,  they  should 
grieve  what  I  got  across  in  the  papers. 


76  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

The  night  of  the  fight  with  Griggs  we  rolled  up  to 
the  clubhouse  bright  and  early  in  our  Snappy  Six, 
with  the  chauffeur,  door  tender,  valet,  and  nickle- 
plated  hood.  Over  the  radiator  is  a  large  sign  marked, 
"Kid  Roberts,  Next  Heavyweight  Champion  of  the 
World."  We  stop  outside  the  main  entrance  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  as  the  Kid  is  masked  and  wearin' 
evenin'  clothes  we  attract  no  more  attention  than  a 
snowfall  would  in  Hades.  We  occupy  a  ringside  box 
durin'  the  preliminaries,  and  before  each  scrap  the 
Kid  climbed  into  the  ring,  shook  hands  with  each 
fighter  and  wished  'em  many  happy  returns — also 
somethin'  new.  I  kept  hittin'  the  mob  in  the  face  with 
the  Kid  all  the  time  we  was  there  till  fin'ly  we  was 
arousin'  as  much  interest  as  the  boys  in  the  ring.  We 
left  for  the  dressin'  room  durin'  the  semifinal  bout, 
followed  by  cheers  that  would  of  tickled  Dempsey. 
Did  that  crowd  want  to  see  Kid  Roberts  fight?  You 
tell  'em! 

But  I  wasn't  through  yet! 

The  Kid  comes  into  the  ring  wearin',  besides  the 
mask,  a  blue  silk  bath  robe,  ornamented  with  pale  pink 
peacocks  and  purple  flowers.  On  top  of  his  regular 
handlers  and  me  they  is  the  valet  with  a  tray  of  hot 
chocolate,  a  silver  water  bottle,  smellin'  salts,  and 
the  etc.,  and  a  pile  of  clean  white  towels.  He  is 
helped  through  the  ropes  like  he  was  a  1542  Chinese 
vase,  the  stool  is  carefully  dusted  off,  and  he  sits 
down,  takes  a  cup  of  chocolate  from  the  valet,  a  novel 
from  the  pocket  of  his  bath  robe,  and  without  a  glance 
at  the  other  corner,  begins  to  read! 

Sweet  Cookie! 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  77 

For  a  second  the  customers  is  dazed,  and  then  with 
a  roar  they  begin  to  give  him  the  razz.  Some  of  the 
witty  remarks  from  the  gallery  would  be  barred  here, 
but  I  had  spent  a  week  preparin'  the  Kid  for  that  and 
he  simply  turned  over  a  page,  cast  a  amused  smile 
at  one  and  all,  and  went  on  readin'.  Over  across  the 
ring  Owney  Griggs  and  his  handlers  is  on  the  verge 
of  the  hystericals.  Kid  Roberts,  the  "Millionaire 
Society  Boxer,"  certainly  did  look  soft,  till  the  Kid 
stood  up  to  be  introduced  to  the  house  and  the  "valet" 
whipped  off  the  trick  bath  robe. 

The  mob  quit  kiddin'  on  the  instant,  the  noisy 
chatter  hangin'  fire  on  a  long  gasp — then  they  rocked 
the  buildin'  with  the  hand  his  clean,  magnificent  body 
deserved.  The  grin  slid  from  the  face  of  Owney 
Griggs  and  he  sat  down,  lookin'  very  serious. 

If  ever  there  was  a  flashy  looker,  stripped,  his  name 
was  Kid  Roberts — the  ripplin'  muscles  rollin'  and 
twistin'  under  his  white  skin  like  corded  steel  under 
satin.  A  sport  writer,  sittin'  under  his  corner,  threw 
away  a  cigarette  and  immediately  christened  him 
"the  Adonis  of  the  Ring,"  and  as  such  he  was  known 
to  the  finish.  Alongside  of  this  seven-ton  bruiser  he 
was  gonna  meet,  he  looked  kinda  light  for  a  punishin' 
heavyweight,  but  the  minute  the  bell  rang  he  looked 
big  enough  to  take  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar — and  he 
was! 

With  the  crowd  yellin'  and  strainin'  in  their  seats, 
the  Kid  was  halfway  across  the  ring  before  Griggs 
left  his  corner.  Workin'  fast,  Roberts  feinted  this 
big  ham  into  a  knot,  brought  his  guard  down  with  a 
jab  at  the  body  and  then,  like  a  flash  of  startled  light, 


78  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

crashed  over  a  right  to  the  jaw  that  dumped  Monsieur 
Owney  Griggs  on  his  face  as  cold  as  a  pawnbroker's 
eye,  just  forty  seconds  after  the  openin'  gong. 

So  that  was  all  settled! 

Leavin'  the  ring,  the  Kid  got  a  sendoff  which  he'll 
remember  to  his  dyin'  day.  With  the  help  of  the 
good  old  bunk,  represented  by  the  mask  and  the  "Mil 
lionaire  Society  Boxer"  thing — and  the  lucky  one- 
punch  knockout  of  the  tramp — Kid  Roberts  had 
arrived  in  his  first  start  on  the  Big  Time  and,  barrin' 
accidents,  we  was  headed  for  the  large  dough. 

The  guy  which  first  said  "Accidents  will  happen!" 
was  no  Ananias,  I'll  rise  to  inform  the  globe! 

The  next  day,  all  arguments,  threats,  prayers,  and 
the  like  havin'  failed  with  the  Kid,  I  signed  him  to 
fight  Al  Kennedy  eight  rounds  in  Jersey  City  two 
weeks  later.  We  was  guaranteed  $1,000  for  our  end, 
with  a  option  of  30  per  cent  of  the  gross.  I  had  no 
trouble  gettin'  the  match,  because  Dummy  Carney  was 
so  wild  to  see  his  man  batter  Roberts  insensible  that 
he  was  almost  willin'  to  let  Kennedy  go  in  for  nothin', 
which,  as  usual,  was  what  the  papers  said  Roberts 
was  gonna  get.  I  figured  the  Kid  had  one  chance  in 
five  against  Al  Kennedy  right  then. 

Then  my  troubles  begin  for  real ! 

In  the  first  place,  the  Kid  starts  duckin'  his  trainin' 
to  act  as  a  bodyguard  for  Estelle  Van  Horn.  He  com 
menced  to  tell  me  that  Estelle  "understood  him"  and 
that  she  really  was  a  sweet,  wholesome,  and  innocent 
girl  which  come  only  recently  from  a  fine  family  out 
in  Parsnip,  Ohio.  Upon  receipt  of  that  sensational 
information,  I  managed  to  get  the  boon  of  a  interview 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  79 

with  the  fair  Estelle.  As  I  expected,  if  Estelle  was 
a  country  maiden,  then  I'm  Caruso,  and  a  five-minute 
conversation  convinced  me  that  the  Kid's  swell  front 
had  led  her  innocent  little  mind  astray.  She  was 
lookin'  for  a  limousine  any  day  and  not  no  flivver, 
either,  whereas  and  to  wit  the  Kid  actually  couldn't 
buy  her  a  inner  tube. 

As  I  had  the  boy's  future  in  my  hands,  I  told  her 
that  and  also  that  no  matter  what  he  had  led  her  to 
believe  on  the  way  home  in  the  taxi,  he  was  simply 
a  second-rate  prize  fighter  and  I  was  his  manager  and 
if  she  didn't  believe  it,  nothin'  would  please  me  better 
than  to  have  her  come  up  to  Billy  Morgan's  some  after 
noon  and  see  her  gentleman  friend  work  out  with  the 
other  hams.  She  coldly  shooed  me  away,  but  called  me 
back  at  the  door  to  ask  the  address  of  Billy  Morgan's. 

The  other  thing  which  kept  me  from  dyin'  of  the 
sleepin'  sickness  was  the  Kid's  sudden  and  determined 
ambition  to  protect  his  face  at  all  costs  from  the  end 
of  a  glove.  No  matter  what  come  to  pass,  he  swore 
he'd  never  leave  a  prize  ring  marked  up.  No  cauli 
flower  ears,  busted  beaks,  split  lips,  or  eyes  in  mournin' 
was  gonna  come  to  him.  Outa  the  ring,  nobody  would 
ever  know  he  was  a  fighter,  because  once  he  made  his 
pile  he  expected  to  take  up  his  place  in  society  at  about 
where  he  left  off.  Now  this  here  stuff  is  O.  K.  in  its 
way,  but  when  a  guy  leaves  himself  wide  open  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  belt  in  order  to  keep  his  beauti 
ful  features  untouched,  it's  exceedin'ly  dangerous.  A 
well-placed  clout  to  the  body  has  won  as  many  fights 
as  a  smash  to  the  jaw  ever  did.  Ask  Corbett,  he 
knows ! 


80  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

As  the  time  for  the  fight  with  Kennedy  got  nearer, 
the  Kid  got  worse  if  anything.  Sparrin'  partners  had 
no  trouble  at  all  reachin'  his  short  ribs  and  heart,  and 
I  warned  him  that  if  Kennedy  ever  threw  a  solid 
punch  into  his  mid-section  he  would  break  him  in  two, 
but  the  Kid  only  grinned  and  called  my  attention  to 
the  fact  that  they  wasn't  a  pug  in  the  gym  which 
could  lay  a  glove  on  his  face  and  that  he  was  in  good 
enough  condition  to  take  anything  in  the  body.  He 
also  remarked  that  the  Kennedy  fight  would  be  the 
same  as  the  fracas  with  Owney  Griggs — one  round. 

He  had  it  posolutely  right! 

A  coupla  days  before  the  mill  a  middleweight,  which 
had  been  trainin'  in  Billy  Morgan's  and  sparrin'  with 
the  Kid,  failed  to  show  up.  I  didn't  give  that  a  thought 
at  the  time,  bein'  busy  with  a  million  other  things.  I 
seen  that  guy  again  the  night  Kid  Roberts  climbed 
through  the  ropes.  He  was  grinnin'  at  me  and  holdin' 
the  bucket  for  Al  Kennedy ! 

The  evenin'  that  Kid  Roberts  and  Al  Kennedy  fought 
in  Jersey  City  the  coppers  closed  the  doors  of  the 
clubhouse  at  nine  o'clock,  whilst  a  coupla  thousand 
bugs  fought  'em  in  the  streets  to  get  in.  I  had  the 
Kid  pull  his  regular  stuff — mask,  dress  suit,  valet, 
and  all — and  it  went  big  this  time  with  the  howlin' 
mob,  which  had  seen  him  polish  off  Owney  Griggs  with 
a  punch  two  weeks  before.  Roberts  got  a  president's 
ovation  when  he  was  introduced  and  so  did  Kennedy 
for  that  matter.  Sweet  Mamma — but  that  crowd  was 
on  edge,  and  when  the  bell  clanged  there  wasn't  a 
guy  sittin'  down  in  the  house. 

Whilst  readyin'  up  the  Kid  I  had  told  him  this : 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  81 

"Tie  into  this  baby  from  the  gong,  Kid,  and  he's 
yours!  Don't  let  him  set,  keep  right  on  top  of  him. 
Forget  about  your  own  face  and  pay  some  atten 
tion  to  his,  and,  above  all  things,  don't  keep  your 
guard  too  high,  because  this  Kennedy  is  a  nasty  body 
punisher !" 

"I'll  be  all  right,"  smiles  the  Kid.  "But  I'm  not 
going  to  let  this  fellow  cut  me  up!  I'm  not  going  to 
chance  a  broken  nose  or  a  torn  ear  for  a  few  dollars — 
those  things  never  heal  perfectly  and  they  always  leave 
a  man  marked.  Well,  I  won't  be  marked  and — " 

The  bell  cut  him  off. 

The  instant  they  met  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  Ken 
nedy  begin  to  play  for  the  Kid's  face  with  that  mean 
left  jab  of  his  and  Roberts  backed  away  whilst  the 
crowd  booed  him.  This  seemed  to  rouse  the  Kid,  and 
he  rushed  Kennedy  to  the  ropes,  landin'  two  hard 
rights  to  the  head  before  they  fell  into  a  clinch. 
Kennedy  again  tried  hard  for  the  Kid's  jaw  on  the 
break,  but  Roberts,  now  the  picture  of  confidence, 
made  him  look  foolish  and  brought  a  roar  from  the 
crowd  by  sendin'  him  back  on  his  heels  with  a  vicious 
right  to  the  heart.  Instead  of  followin'  this  one  up  and 
maybe  finishin'  his  man,  the  Kid  stood  off  whilst  the 
mob  shrieked:  "Go  on,  you  big  stiff,  take  a  chance — 
knock  him  out!"  A  left  chop  brought  blood  from 
Kennedy's  nose  and  a  second  later  Roberts  crashed 
him  into  the  ropes  with  a  volley  of  rights  and  lefts  to 
the  head.  The  crowd  was  now  ten  thousand  lunatics 
yellin'  for  a  knockout.  Kennedy  dove  into  a  clinch 
and  looked  over  the  Kid's  shoulder  to  his  own  corner 
for  advice,  his  face  a  crimson  smear.  The  advice  come 


82  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

from  that  little  rat  middleweight  which  had  blowed  our 
camp  before  the  fight. 

"The  face,  Al!"  screams  this  guy.     "Bring  it  up!" 

As  the  referee  tore  them  apart,  Kennedy,  badly 
outpointed  and  almost  all  in,  let  fly  a  desperate  right 
to  the  jaw.  It  barely  grazed  the  Kid,  but  it  made 
him  nervous  for  that  infernal  face  of  his  and  up  came 
his  guard.  "Now!"  comes  bellerin'  from  Kennedy's 
corner,  and  Zam ! — he  buries  his  left  to  the  wrist  in 
the  Kid's  body  with  a  sock  that  could  be  plainly  heard 
in  South  Dakota.  The  Kid  flashed  white  and  his  head 
rolled.  I  knew  what  was  comin',  but  I  yelled  to  the 
Kid  to  clinch,  at  the  same  time  gettin'  the  sponge  ready. 
Kennedy,  now  wild  with  eagerness  to  finish  the  Kid, 
missed  a  coupla  swings  and  then  fin'ly  connected  with 
a  right  hook  to  the  jaw  that  dropped  the  Kid  on  one 
knee.  He  looked  over  to  me  like  he  didn't  know  what 
it  was  all  about  (which  he  didn't,  by  the  way),  took 
a  count  of  "eight,"  and  then,  grabbin'  Kennedy's  leg 
for  a  brace,  he  pulled  himself  up — out  on  his  feet.  A 
feint  for  the  jaw,  the  Kid's  hands  goes  up  mechanically 
and  a  solid  left  under  the  heart  sprawled  him  dead 
to  the  world,  knocked  out  for  the  first  time,  almost  at 
my  feet !  I  had  started  into  the  ring  with  the  punch. 

To  the  mob  of  maniacs  around  me  it  was  only  the 
sensational  end  of  a  sensational  fight,  but  to  me  it 
was  the  probable  wind-up  of  a  chance  to  make  a  mil 
lion  !  All  I  could  think  as  I  helped  carry  the  Kid  to 
his  corner  was  would  he  ever  forget  he  had  been 
knocked  cold,  or  was  this  his  finish  and  mine  ? 

The  first  thing  the  Kid  called  for  in  the  dressin' 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  83 

room  was — a  mirror.  When  he  seen  there  wasn't  a 
scratch  on  his  face,  he  grinned. 

"Sorry !"  he  says.    "Are  you  through  ?" 

"What  d'ye  mean  through?"  I  snarls.  "We're 
just  beginnin' — or  maybe  you  got  enough,  hey?" 

The  grin  gets  broader. 

"I  had  to  get  it  some  time,  I  suppose,"  he  says, 
kinda  thoughtful.  Then:  "I  think  this  fight  will  do 
me  a  lot  of  good — I  learned  a  pile  of  things  while  it 
lasted.  You  know,  frankly,  in  spite  of  this  reversal 
to-night,  I  feel  in  my  heart  that  I  can  whip  that  fel 
low!" 

"There's  no  question  about  it !"  I  says.  "You'd  of 
flattened  him  sure  to-night  if  you  hadn't  been  so  damn 
careful  of  gettin'  your  face  mussed  up.  Why,  you 
had  him—" 

"Get  him  for  me  again!"  he  butts  in.  "I'll  start 
conditioning  myself  again  to-morrow!" 

Not  bad  for  a  guy  which  has  just  been  knocked, 
hey? 

I  turned  on  the  old  thinker  again  that  night  and 
several  days  later  I  signed  Roberts  to  fight  Kennedy 
six  rounds  in  Philly,  the  middle  of  the  followin'  month. 
I  had  to  take  $600.  By  a  strange  coincidence,  I  also 
brung  a  new  sparrin'  partner  around  to  Billy  Mor 
gan's  to  work  out  with  the  Kid.  This  baby  and 
Roberts  had  been  sparrin'  lightly  for  a  few  minutes, 
when  who  appears  in  the  doorway  but  Estelle  Van 
Horn,  which  had  selected  that  day  to  see  for  herself 
how  her  boy  friend  evaded  the  poorhouse.  I  called 
to  the  Kid,  and  he  turned  his  head.  The  other  guy 
prob'ly  didn't  hear  me,  because  on  the  instant  he 


84  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

swung  a  roundhouse  left,  square  on  the  Kid's  unpro 
tected  face!  Roberts  staggered  back,  recovered,  and 
put  both  gloves  to  his  nose.  We  all  rushed  over,  the 
sparrin'  partner  chokin'  apologies  and  scared  stiff  and 
some  of  the  other  handlers  tryin'  to  stop  the  flow  of 
gore.  Whilst  waitin'  for  the  medico,  I  felt  the 
Kid's  nose  with  a  experienced  and  eager  hand — they 
was  no  doubt  about  it,  it  was  broke  bad  and  would 
carry  a  dent  as  long  as  he  lived.  In  the  excitement 
the  fair  Estelle  beat  it. 

We  was  sittin'  in  the  room  at  the  hotel  some  hours 
later  when  the  phone  rung.  A  cold  female  voice  asks 
for  "Mister  Roberts."  The  conversation  wasn't  long 
and  consisted  on  the  Kid's  part  of  the  followin' : 

"Hello  .  .  .  yes  .  .  ."  (a  long  silence).  "But,  my 
dear  girl  .  .  ."  (another  and  longer  silence).  "Very 
well,  Miss  Van  Horn  .  .  .  good-by!" 

With  reference  to  nobody  in  particular,  the  Kid 
bursts  out  as  he  slams  up  the  receiver : 

"She  saw  me  in  the  gym — she  called  me  a  pork-and- 
beaner,  whatever  that  may  be.  She —  Good  Heavens, 
her  language! — and  I  thought —  Say,  can  you  tell 
me  why  I  ever  thought  that  girl  was —  Why,  she 
fooled  me  completely." 

"They  run  that  way  sometimes,"  I  says  carelessly. 
"Now,  that  beak  of  yours  will  be  O.  K.  in — " 

He's  lookin'  in  the  mirror. 

"If  I  hadn't  been  so  careful  of  my  nose,  I  would 
have  stepped  into  Kennedy  and  beaten  him  sure!"  he 
murmurs,  with  a  half  smile.  "But  I  got  knocked  out 
saving  it  and  then  a  sparring  partner  breaks  it  in 
training.  A  jest  of  the  gods !  Well,  it's  done  and  in- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  85 

directly  it  will  be  a  great  thing  for  me — I've  got  the 
badge  of  my  profession  now,  and  at  least  there's  one 
worry  off  my  mind!  Beginning  to-day,  I'm  in  this 
thing  heart  and  soul.  I'll  take  no  more  foolish  precau 
tions — as  you  say,  one  can't  make  catsup  without 
breakin'  some  tomatoes.  Watch  me  step  into  them 
and  treat  'em  rough  now !" 

"Sixty-eight  cheers!"  I  grins.  "That's  just  what 
I  figured — I  mean,  you  got  the  right  idea,  son!" 

"Isn't  fate  the  playful  jade  ?"  he  says.  "Still  I  almost 
feel  like  rewarding  that  fellow  for  that  punch  on  the 
nose — it  will  probably  make  me  a  fortune!  What's 
his  name  anyhow  ?" 

"Search  me!"  I  says,  reachin'  for  my  hat.  "Them 
tramps  is  usually  all  'One-Round'  somethin'  or  other. 
Let's  get  some  chow." 

I  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  tell  Kid  Roberts  that, 
speakin'  of  rewards,  I  had  already  rewarded  the  guy 
which  busted  his  nose  before  I  brung  him  in  to  do 
it,  and  his  name  was — well,  Heroic  Treatment  is  as 
good  as  any,  I  guess! 


ROUND  FOUR 
A  FOOL  AND  HIS  HONEY 

THE  average  admirer  of  the  manly  art  of  aggra 
vated  assault  has  the  idea  that  a  prize  fighter's  mana 
ger  is  the  gent  the  leather  pusher  has  got  to  give  half 
his  wages  to,  which  sits  in  his  meal  ticket's  corner 
bawlin'  him  out  every  time  the  other  young  man 
clouts  him  earnestly  on  the  features — and  that's  about 
all.  Nothin',  outside  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  could 
be  farther  from  the  facts.  A  first-class  pilot  is  to  a  box 
fighter  what  a  race  track  is  to  a  jockey — he's  got  to 
have  one  or  he  don't  get  nowheres.  There  is  no 
doubt  whole  coveys  of  boxin'  impresarios  which  is 
little  more  than  towel  wavers  and  nickel  hiders,  but 
a  real,  Big  Time  manager  of  pugs  hustles  harder  for 
his  pennies  than  a  bill  poster  on  a  windy  day.  He's 
got  to  have  the  conscience  of  a  loan  shark,  the  shrewd 
ness  of  Shylock's  old  man,  the  nerve  of  a  blind  tight 
rope  walker,  the  imagination  of  the  guy  which  in 
vented  boardin'-house  hash,  and  the  optimism  of  a 
salesman  startin'  through  Hades  with  a  line  of  cellu 
loid  collars.  He's  got  to  be  press  agent,  trainer, 
banker,  adviser,  valet,  pal,  and  keeper  for  some  bull- 
necked  mauler,  which  nine  and  three-fifths  times  outa 
ten  presents  him  with  the  raspberry  the  instant 
he  graduates  from  the  preliminaries. 

86 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  87 

Many  a  tenth-rate  scrapper  has  copped  fame  and 
fortune  through  the  efforts  of  a  brainy  pilot,  and 
many  a  champ  has  lost  both  through  the  coarse  work 
of  a  poor  one.  Again,  they  ain't  a  dozen  cases  on 
the  books  where  a  fighter  tried  to  manage  himself  and 
was  a  success  of  it.  One  bright  and  shinin'  example 
of  this  is  Monsieur  Jessica  Willard,  the  martyr  of 
Toledo,  which  might  of  lasted  a  few  more  seconds 
before  the  ferocious  Dempsey  if  he'd  had  shrewd  and 
experienced  handlin'  from  his  corner. 

Popularity  with  the  mob  is  what  brings  home  the 
sugar  in  professional  boxin'  the  same  as  in  profes 
sional  anything.  Jim  Coffey  shook  a  mean  controller 
on  the  front  end  of  a  New  York  street  car  before 
he  seen  a  picture  of  Peter  Maher  and  decided  he  was 
a  sucker  to  work  for  a  coupla  bucks  a  day  when  he 
could  put  on  half  a  bathin'  suit,  knock  a  lot  of  Eng 
lishmen  cold,  and  get  from  one  to  five  thousand  berries 
for  doin'  it.  Coffey  was  rechristened  "the  Fighting 
Irish  Motorman,"  and  every  time  he  started  against 
some  set-up  they  had  to  call  out  the  reserves  to  keep 
the  motormen  and  conductors  from  tearin'  the  club 
house  down  to  see  their  ex-colleague  perform.  In  a 
few  months  Coffey  cleaned  up  a  fortune.  Frank  Moran 
gets  paid  in  thousands  for  his  work  because  he  can 
and  usually  does  take  a  terrific  lacin'  with  a  wide  grin 
on  his  face  and  a  runnin'  fire  of  wise  cracks  for  the 
ringsiders.  Al  McCoy,  when  middleweight  champ, 
was  prob'ly  the  least  popular  fighter  which  ever  wore 
a  crown,  yet  he  got  large  dough  for  his  services  be 
cause  he  jammed  the  clubhouse  with  thousands  of 
fans  which  wildly  hated  him  and  come  for  the  sole 


88  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

purpose  of  seein'  him  knocked  dead!  I  could  name 
a  hundred  other  scrappers  which  got  a  Big  Time 
hearin'  purely  on  a  managerial-created  personality. 

Success  is  a  high-powered  drink  which  has  flattened 
as  many  guys  as  booze  ever  did — you  gotta  know  how 
to  handle  it  or  it'll  throw  you,  as  sure  as  the  Atlantic 
is  inclined  to  be  damp!  What  keeps  plenty  of  room 
for  newcomers  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  of  fame  is  the 
fact  that  simple  carelessness  is  continually  forcin'  guys 
that's  reached  there  to  slide  off.  In  our  case  poor 
judgment  and  too  much  ambition  caused  us  to  drop 
back  in  the  heap  just  when  it  looked  like  not  even  the 
champ  could  stop  us. 

This  one-round  knockout  by  Kennedy  before  a  metro 
politan  jury  ruined  all  my  hard  work  in  makin'  Kid  Rob 
erts  a  drawin'  card  in  the  Big  Town,  and  set  us  back  at 
least  a  year — as  I  thought  at  the  time.  Here's  a  burg 
where  you  can  get  anything  in  the  world  with  the  slight 
exception  of  sympathy,  where  every  guy  which  lands  at 
the  Battery  with  a  dialect,  a  secretary,  and  four  trunks 
is  gave  the  freedom  of  the  city  and  a  chance  to  rent 
Carnegie  Hall,  whilst  a  possible  future  Carnegie, 
with  nothin'  but  the  dialect,  is  sent  to  Ellis  Island  so's 
he  can  appreciate  what  a  democracy  means  at  the  go  in. 

The  bank  roll  was  shot  to  pieces,  three  or  four  im 
portant  and  exceedin'ly  profitable  bouts  had  been  can 
celed,  and  takin'  it  by  and  large,  our  prospects  looked  as 
bright  as  a  guy's  which  has  just  finished  a  course  in 
bartendin'.  There  was  only  one  way  we  could  come 
back  quick,  and  that  was  to  get  a  return  scrap  with 
Kennedy  and  knock  him  dead,  a  thing  that  to  my  untu 
tored  mind  looked  99  per  cent  impossible.  In  the  first 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  89 

place,  the  hardest  fight  in  a  box-fighter's  career  is  his 
first  quarrel  after  he's  been  knocked  out.  You  gener 
ally  pick  nothin'  but  tramps  for  him  all  over  again, 
gradually  gettin'  his  confidence  back — but  to  rush  a 
green  kid  right  in  again  against  the  baby  that's  flattened 
him  is  absolutely  idiotic,  nine  times  outa  ten.  If  your 
boy's  a  champ,  or  you  got  a  agreement  with  the  other 
guy,  it's  different.  I  had  neither  a  champ  or  a  agree 
ment. 

So,  as  I  looked  across  our  room  at  the  Kid  pacin' 
up  and  down  like  the  inmate  of  the  panther's  cage 
at  the  zoo,  I  decided  it  was  us  back  to  the  bushes 
again  for  a  space,  battlin'  bums  and  sellin'  tickets  for 
the  battles  on  a  commission  in  the  lew  of  a  guaranteed 
purse. 

"Well,  Kid,"  I  says  fin'ly,  "drag  out  the  old  suit 
case  and  we'll  vamp  away  for  the  sticks.  We  gotta 
start  all  over  again,  several  feet  below  the  bottom, 
and  jab  our  way  back  to  where  we  was  when  you  fell 
into  that  wallop  from  Kennedy.  It's  tough,  but — '' 

He  swung  around  on  me  like  a  flash.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  he  says.  "I  thought  you  had  secured  me 
a  return  bout  with  Al  Kennedy  ?" 

Pretty  good  for  the  Kid,  hey  ?  Wantin'  to  step  right 
out  again  with  the  first  guy  which  had  knocked  him 
for  a  goal.  The  boy  had  heart,  what? 

"I  had  matched  you  with  Kennedy  again,"  I  says, 
"but  said  bout  is  all  off  now !" 

"He  crawled  out  of  it,  eh?"  he  snarls,  bangin'  his 
fist  down  on  the  bureau.  "Robbed  me  of  my  chance 
to  win  back  the — " 

"No,"    I    interrupts,    "he   didn't    crawl    out    of    it. 


90  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Nothin'  would  of  gave  Monsieur  Kennedy  greater 
delight  than  havin'  you  as  his  guest  in  the  middle  of  a 
twenty- four- foot  ring !  I'm  the  baby  that  crabbed  the 
thing,  and  it  hurt  me  more  than  it  does  you,  because 
we  was  to  drag  down  six  hundred  fish  for  that  melee, 
and  the  only  way  we  can  make  six  hundred  dollars 
right  now  is  to  steal  a  counter  feitin'  layout  some- 
wheres !" 

"Then  why  the  devil  did  you  cancel  that  bout?"  he 
roars,  advancin'  on  me  with  a  four-alarm  fire  in  each 
eye.  "Is  this  a  crude  preliminary  to  your  tellin'  me 
you're  ready  to  quit  me  because  I've  been  knocked 
out?" 

The  Kid  was  towerin'  over  me,  his  fine  chin  shoved 
out  at  a  fightin'  angle,  and  that  bone-crushin'  right 
dyin'  with  impatience  to  land  on  my  jaw.  I  stood  up, 
put  my  hands  in  my  pockets  and  looked  him  over 
quietly. 

"Listen!"  I  says.  "I  never  quit  anything  or  any 
body  in  my  life;  that's  why  I'm  broke — which  shows 
the  copy  books  is  all  wrong!  I'll  tell  you  why  I 
called  off  your  return  quarrel  with  Al  Kennedy,  and 
if  you  laugh  at  me  whilst  I'm  tellin'  it  I'll  take  a  clout 
at  you  myself.  It  was  maniacal  on  my  part  to  listen 
to  you  before  and  send  you  in  against  a  guy  as  tough 
as  that,  instead  of  waitin'  till  you  had  a  few  more  real 
battles  under  your  belt,  and  I  been  sore  at  myself  for 
doin'  it  ever  since.  You  and  me  was  raised  in  differ 
ent  hothouses,  Kid — the  nearest  /  ever  been  to  college 
was  the  time  I  went  up  to  New  Haven  to  go  behind 
Young  Evans  when  he  fought  K.  O.  Hinds.  I  passed 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  91 

Yale  on  the  ways  to  the  clubhouse.  So  I  know  your 
idea  of  a  box-fighter's  manager  is  a  guy  which  would 
frame  his  brother  for  a  dollar-fifty,  set  fire  to  a  orphan 
asylum  just  to  be  nasty,  and  rob  a  blind  cripple  for 
want  of  somethin'  to  do.  Well,  here's  where  the  big 
laugh  comes.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  like  you,  you 
big  stiff,  and  I'm  not  gonna  let  you  go  in  and  get  your 
head  punched  off,  when  I  know  you  ain't  got  a  chance 
of  winnin',  for  a  few  dirty  dollars !  I  need  my  bit  of 
the  six  hundred  men  we  was  guaranteed  to  fight  Ken 
nedy  the  same  as  you  do,  but  I  ain't  gonna  take  it  for 
you  gettin'  beat  up.  We'll  go  broke  together  and  battle 
our  way  back.  Now  if  you  wanna  clout  me,  go  to 
it!" 

The  Kid's  face  was  a  movie  durin'  the  time  I  was 
talkin'  and  them  big  hands  which  was  to  make  him 
a  mint  full  of  kopeks  slowly  fell  at  his  sides.  Then 
one  of  'em  shot  up  and  grabbed  mine  till  they  must 
of  heard  me  yell  in  Siberia. 

"I'm  all  wrong!"  he  says  with  that  flashin'  kid  grin 
of  his.  "It  seems  to  me,  old  man,  that  I  should  pre 
pare  a  lot  of  apologies  and  present  them  to  you  at  once ; 
it  would  save  a  lot  of  time.  I  think  I'll  rechristen  you 
Gunga  Din,  for  at  times  there  appears  to  be  no  question 
but  that  you're  a  better  man  than  I  am !" 

"Say,  listen!"  I  says,  tickled  silly  that  the  boy  was 
himself  again.  "Lay  off  that  Gunga  Din  stuff.  I'm 
a  manager,  not  a  water-bucket  holder !" 

The  Kid's  grin  widens.  "Now  that  the  airy  per 
siflage  has  been  disposed  of,"  he  says,  grabbin'  my 
hand  again,  "please  believe  that  I  value  your  friend 
ship  as  much  as  I  do  your — er — managerial  ability,  and, 


92  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

whatever  my  fortunes  may  be,  I'll  never  forget  either. 
I  am  thoroughly  convinced  now  that  you  had  my  best 
interests  at  heart  when  you  canceled  that  Kennedy  re 
turn  bout." 

"That's  fine!"  I  says,  lettin'  forth  several  sighs  of 
relief.  "And  now  that  we  got  that  all  settled,  we — " 

"But,"  he  goes  on,  "I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  wire 
for  a  new  contract,  because  my  next  bout  will  be  with 
Al  Kennedy  if  I  have  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him  in  the 
street !" 

I  let  out  a  yell  and  collapsed  on  the  bed.  This  baby 
was  past  me ! 

"Yes,"  he  continues  coldly,  sittin'  on  the  arm  of  a 
chair  and  borin'  me  with  them  steel-gray  eyes  of  his. 
"I'm  going  to  fight  Kennedy  again  before  I  meet  any 
one  else,  and  I'm  fit  enough  to  step  into  the  ring  with 
him  to-night.  I  will  not  go  back !  I've  set  a  goal  for 
myself,  and  I  may  be  forced  out  of  the  game  altogether, 
but  I'll  never  return  to  beating  up  those  poor,  unfortu 
nate  brutes  for  a  few  dollars  a  fight.  Those  things  are 
not  boxing  bouts ;  they're  exhibitions  of  bestial  brutal 
ity  that  would  have  warmed  the  cockles  of  Nero's 
heart !  No  more  of  them  for  me,  and  that's  final ! 
I'm  going  ahead,  not  backward,  old  man,  and  a  win 
over  Kennedy  means  a  step  forward — a  bout  with  the 
next  man  higher  up  to  the  champion.  If  Kennedy 
whips  me  again,  I'll  quit  the  ring  and  try  my  hand  at 
something  else ;  but  he's  got  to  whip  me  first !  You 
wire  for  a  bout  on  any  terms — I'll  fight  him  for  noth 
ing  if  there's  no  other  way.  Why,  the  prestige  of  a 
victory  over  him  would  be  worth  it !" 

Whilst  I'm  still  in  a  trance  he  walks  over  and  picks 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  93 

up  his  hat,  gives  himself  a  swift  dollin'  up  before  the 
mirror,  and  turns  to  the  door. 

"I'm  going  down  and  get  a  magazine,"  he  says.  "I'll 
be  back  shortly.  You'd  better  file  that  wire  at  once — 
or  /  will!" 

"But  look  here,  you  boob !"  I  hollers,  jumpin'  up. 
"We  have—" 

"Get  me  Kennedy !"  he  snaps,  and  slams  the  door. 

I  sit  there  lookin'  at  said  door  for  the  worst  part  of 
five  minutes.  Then  I  reached  in  my  pocket  and  pulled 
out  a  little  billet-doux  I  had  not  showed  Kid  Roberts. 
It  was  a  answer  to  my  telegram  cancelin'  the  fight  with 
Kennedy,  and  the  words  and  music  went  like  this : 

Will  raise  ante  to  $750  no  higher,  six  rounds  Ken 
nedy.  Don't  try  to  Jesse  James  us.  Wire  if  0.  K. 

ALBION  A.  C. 

I  must  of  read  that  novel  over  about  forty  times. 
Then  I  got  up,  swore  what  is  frequently  called  a  round 
oath,  kicked  over  a  innocent  wastebasket,  went  to  the 
phone,  and  wired  the  Albion  A.  C.  approval  to  the 
assassination  in  cold  blood  of  the  whitest  guy  which 
ever  rubbed  a  shoe  in  rosin — i.  e.,  Kid  Roberts ! 

Down  in  the  lobby  I  found  everybody  in  the  world, 
with  the  slight  exception  of  Kid  Roberts.  Over  to  a 
side  was  one  of  them  classy  tea  rooms  where  you  really 
gotta  drink  tea  now,  unless  you're  a  old  customer  which 
has  been  a  steady  patron  for  a  few  hours  at  the  least. 
It's  jammed  as  the  subway  at  6  p.  m.,  with  ladies  which 
is  supposed  to  be  havin'  a  tough  day  shoppin';  tired 
business  men  which  trusts  they  ain't  recognized,  but  if 
they  are  what  of  it ;  young  girls  which  should  be  goin' 


94  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

to  school  and  are,  but  don't  know  it  yet,  and  young  guys 
which  toils  not  neither  do  they  spin,  on  account  of  bein' 
able  to  shake  a  nasty  hoof.  Everybody  is  dancin' 
hither  and  yon  to  the  soft  strains  of  a  jazz  band  which 
would  get  throwed  out  of  a  boiler  factory  for  makin' 
too  much  noise. 

In  the  midst  of  the  above,  I  discover  Kid  Roberts. 

The  boy  is  steppin'  out  with  a  Jane  which  the  only 
thing  I  can  tell  about  her  from  where  I  stand  is  that 
she's  got  black  hair  and  a  lot  of  it,  but  when  the  music 
had  mercy  and  laid  off  and  by  dumb  luck  they  come  to 
a  halt  opposite  me,  I  seen  that  was  only  one  of  the 
young  lady's  various  charms.  She's  one  of  them 
medium  height,  curvin'  knockouts  which  would  prob'ly 
of  made  a  bigger  boob  outa  Marc  Anthony  than  Cleo 
did,  inside  of  five  minutes.  Also,  she  had  a  couple 
of  eyes  which  would  attract  a  crowd  even  if  set  in  a 
scarfpin,  and  she  had  found  out  that  they  was  more 
things  could  be  done  with  'em  than  merely  gazin' 
straight  ahead.  Even  though  a  experienced  spectator 
could  see  her  complexion  come  in  a  can,  she  had  made 
a  beaucoup  job  of  it.  But  the  expression  in  them  starry 
orbs  I  spoke  about  reminded  me  of  a  boss  poker 
player's  when  he's  considerin'  standin'  a  raise. 

"Lookin'  for  me?"  says  the  Kid  pleasantly,  seein' 
me. 

"Yeh,"  I  nods,  givin'  the  young  lady  a  brief  glance. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Murray,"  he  says,  with  a  drawin'- 
room  bow,  "I  won't  be  a  moment,  and  then  we'll  finish 
our  dance.  Oh,  let  me  introduce  my  friend,  Mister — " 

"Pleased  t'meetcha!"  butts  in  the  charmin'  young 
damsel,  with  what  she  no  doubt  thought  was  a  killin' 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  95 

smile.  "Never  mind  the  rest — I  kin  never  remember 
names  anyways.  Do  you  dance?" 

"I  was  a  assistant  at  St.  Vitus  Academy  for  years," 
I  says,  with  a  bewitchin'  grin. 

"Oh,  a  kidder,  hey  ?"  she  comes  back.  Then  turnin' 
to  the  Kid:  "Well  go  ahead  and  see  what  your  friend 
wants — if  you  make  it  snappy,  I'll  wait." 

The  Kid  bows  again,  I  don't,  and  we  start  for  the 
elevator. 

"Do  you  expect  to  lick  Kennedy  by  trainin'  in  a 
jazzery  with  a  dame  for  a  sparrin'  partner?"  I  snarls, 
kinda  sore.  "What's  the  idea?" 

He  smiles.  But  it's  a  nervous  grin — there  seems  to 
be  somethin'  on  his  mind. 

"I  was  standing  in  the  lobby,"  he  tells  me,  "and  I 
heard  them  playing  a  waltz  in  there.  It  was  one  of 
those  soft,  dreamy,  Mendellsohny  things  that  brought 
with  it  visions  of  Newport,  Tuxedo,  Aiken — oh,  all 
that  used  to  be.  I  went  over  merely  to  listen — to  close 
my  eyes  and  fancy  myself  again  a —  However,  I  met 
Mabel — eh — Miss  Murray,  quite  unconventionally — de 
lightfully  so.  I  simply  respectfully  asked  permission 
to  dance  with  her,  introducing  myself,  before  I  thought, 
as  Kane  Halliday.  You  see,  I  was  carried  away  by 
the  spell  of  my  imaginings  and  forgot  that  I  am  tem 
porarily  Kid  Roberts,  a  pugilist.  Unfortunately  the 
lady  had  no  sooner  granted  my  idiotic  request  when  the 
orchestra  swung  into  that  infernal  din — jazz,  I  believe 
they  call  it — and  I,  of  course,  had  to  go  through  with 
it." 

"It  didn't  seem  to  be  causin'  you  no  pain  when  / 


96  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

flashed  you,"  I  snorts.    "Who  the — who  is  this  Mabel?" 

"Miss  Murray  is  in  charge  of  the  cigar  counter," 
says  the  Kid.  "She  is  a  charming  girl,  all  the  more  so 
for  her  nai've  inconventionality.  I  like  her  immensely, 
and  if  you  in  any  way  intimate  to  her  that  I  am  a  prize 
fighter,  I  think  I  shall  murder  you." 

"Well,"  I  remarks,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  you  are 
a  pig  for  punishment  with  the  regard  to  the  ladies,  Kid, 
and  that's  that !  Go  to  it — this  mere  regular  monthly 
romance  of  yours  will  only  last  a  week  or  so  at  the  most 
and  then — " 

"This  girl  is  different!"  snaps  the  Kid.  "There's 
no  pretense,  no  affectation  about  her.  Her  frank 
ness — " 

"Oh,  all  right,  go  ahead,"  I  butts  in,  as  we  step  outa 
the  elevator.  "As  long  as  you  don't  claim  she  under 
stands  you  and  the  etc.,  I  guess  it  ain't  fatal  yet!" 

As  soon  as  we're  in  the  room  I  breaks  the  glad  tid- 
in's:  "I  have  got  Kennedy  again  for  you  as  per  your 
instructions.  We  fight  him  six  rounds  or  less  in  Philly, 
two  weeks  from  to-morrow,  for  the  modest  stipend  of 
$750,  come  what  may.  Now,  Kid,  you  gotta  train 
hard  for  this  baby  and — 

"I'm  ready  to  step  into  the  ring  right  now!"  he  cuts 
me  off  impatiently.  "I'll  start  light  training  to-morrow 
— at  present  I  need  relaxation.  Lord,  that  girl  will 
think  I've  been  kidnaped.  Back  in  an  hour !"  and  he's 
outa  the  door. 

What  could  you  do  with  a  kid  like  that  ? 

From  then  until  the  night  we  rolled  up  to  the  jammed 
and  howlin'  clubhouse  in  sweet  old  Philly,  Kid  Roberts 
and  the  fair  Mabel  was  constant  playfellows.  By  hang- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  97 

in'  onto  him  like  a  cold  in  the  head  I  had  him  train  hard 
and  faithfully  every  day,  but  in  the  evenin'  by  the 
moonlight  and  the  etc.  it  was  all  different  and  all  Mabel. 
Sweet  Mamma,  how  he  did  fall  for  that  Jane!  She 
had  him  layin'  down  and  rollin'  over  every  time  she 
snapped  her  fingers,  and  alongside  of  the  flowers, 
candy,  and  dinners  he  bought  her,  the  Follies  chorus 
would  think  they  was  neglected.  Every  time  a  mem 
ber  of  the  less  deadly  sex  purchased  a  cigar  from 
Mabel's  stand  whilst  the  Kid  was  in  the  offin',  Roberts 
glared  at  him  like  he  was  gonna  bite  him,  and  it  fin'ly 
got  so  that  the  both  of  'em  was  the  talk  of  the  lobby. 
Still  and  all,  I  did  not  care  for  Mademoiselle  Mur 
ray.  To  me  she  wasn't  the  Kid's  kind.  Let  him  be 
a  pug  for  the  time  bein'  or  not,  he  was  nevertheless 
Kane  Halliday  to  me — a  nice,  big,  clean  kid.  I  freely 
admit  that  Mabel  was  a  ires  bien  looker  and  all  that, 
but  she  was  too  wise  for  the  boy,  and  I  was  afraid  he 
wouldn't  find  that  out  until  when  he  did  it  would  hurt. 
I  had  gave  him  my  word  that  I  wouldn't  tell  her  his 
present  trade  and  that  let  me  out,  but  it  didn't  prevent 
me  from  wishin'  to  Heavens  that  somethin'  would  bust 
up  these  bills  and  coos  before  they  was  nothin'  left  but 
the  bills ! 

We  had  to  practically  clout  our  ways  into  the  club 
house  and  call  on  the  assistance  of  the  coppers  to  get 
to  the  dressin'  room,  where  we  found  some  Philly  news 
paper  guys  waitin'  for  us.  I  had  let  the  fancy  auto, 
valet,  mask,  and  all  the  other  bunk  go  by  the  board 
this  time,  because  that  was  killed  when  Kennedy 
knocked  the  Kid  out  in  one  round  the  first  time  they 


98  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

met.  You  gotta  be  new  all  the  time  in  the  fight  game, 
the  same  as  in  anything  else,  to  get  more  than  a  passin' 
glance  from  the  mob.  Now  that  it  was  known  that 
Kid  Roberts  was  really  Kane  Halliday,  the  once  famous 
Yale  football  and  etc.  star,  he  was  a  bigger  sensation 
than  ever,  and  the  sport  writers  was  gathered  around  us 
to  get  a  story  about  him  for  their  papers. 

After  they  have  interviewed  the  Kid  silly  whilst  he's 
gettin'  into  his  workin'  togs,  one  of  these  guys  says  to 
him: 

"Kid,  we're  all  with  you  and  we  wanna  see  you  knock 
this  guy  for  a  goal,  so  I'm  gonna  slip  you  a  few  tips 
that  may  be  useful  when  you're  in  there  tryin'.  Ken 
nedy  is  as  foul  a  fighter  as  ever  heeled  a  man  with  his 
glove,  and  he  likewise  swings  a  nasty  tongue  in  the 
clinches.  He's  got  you  figured  for  a  set-up  because  he 
flattened  you  before  and  he's  set  to  make  a  show  out  of 
you  to-night.  Keep  your  head  and  pay  no  attention  to 
his  sarcastic  remarks — Just  tie  in  and  he'll  wilt !  But  be 
careful,  because  this  baby  will  try  every  trick  known 
to  the  game." 

"Yes?"  butts  in  the  Kid,  lookin'  up  from  the  table 
where  the  handlers  is  massagin'  him.  "Well,  watch 
me!  I'll  be  so  rough  with  Mister  Kennedy  that  after 
to-night  the  sight  of  a  boxing  glove  will  make  him 
ill  for  a  month.  For  every  trick  he  tries  on  me,  I'll 
go  him  one  better.  This  is  one  fellow  I  want  to 
knock  out  and  I'll  lick  him  at  his  own  game!" 

Wow! 

On  the  square,  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  own 
ears.  I  had  never  heard  the  Kid  pull  any  stuff  like 
this  before  since  I'd  had  him.  Usually  he  was  as 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  99 

nervous  as  a  two-year-old  at  the  post — pale,  tremblin', 
and  lickin*  his  lips  till  if  you  didn't  know  him  you'd 
think  he  was  yellah.  Now  he  laid  there  grinnin'  and 
kiddin'  with  the  handlers,  the  most  cool  and  collected 
guy  in  the  clubhouse.  All  I  was  afraid  of  was  that 
he  was  kiddin'  himself  with  this  stuff  and  might  col 
lapse  on  me  or  somethin'  when  I  got  him  into  the 
ring — I  seen  that  happen  many's  the  time  before  with 
other  guys.  But — well,  wait! 

When  we  pushed  and  milled  down  the  aisle  to  the 
ring  it  seemed  to  me  that,  if  all  the  guys  which  was 
packed  in  there  had  voted  against  prohibition,  it  would 
be  a  felony  to-day  to  call  for  a  glass  of  -water!  They 
had  a  rule  against  smokin',  and  as  a  result  the  smoke 
was  so  thick  we  got  all  the  sensations  of  a  fireman  on 
that  brief  trip  to  the  battle  ground.  Kennedy  and 
his  handlers  had  already  started  down  from  the  oppo 
site  direction,  and  the  yell  which  went  up  from  them 
lunatics  all  around  us  was  just  one  continuous  roar,  in 
which  it  was  impossible  to  pick  out  any  words — 
nothin'  but  plain  sound,  that's  all.  This  here  demon 
stration  was  neither  for  Roberts  or  Kennedy,  par 
ticularly.  It  was  caused  by  the  same  thing  which 
makes  the  lions  in  the  zoo  beller  when  the  keepers 
start  in  with  the  meat. 

There  was  little  time  wasted  in  stallin'  around,  and 
five  minutes  after  the  men  entered  the  ring  they  was 
standin'  together  in  the  center,  gettin'  their  instruc 
tions.  Then  come  the  first  real  thrill — for  me,  any 
ways! 

When  the  referee  gets  through  with  his  monologue 
about  not  hittin'  on  the  breakaways,  and  the  like, 


100  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Kennedy  reaches  over  suddenly  and  grabs  Kid  Roberts 
by  the  wrist,  jerkin'  the  arm  down  hard.  A  old  stunt 
of  gettin'  a  fighter's  goat,  right  on  the  verge  of  the 
openin'  bell. 

"I'll  make  you  yell  for  the  cops,  you  bum!"  he 
snarls.  "I  knocked  you  in  a  round  before — well,  to 
night  I'm  gonna  make  you  stay  and  like  it.  I'll  cut 
you  to  pieces,  you  pink-cheeked  quitter  !" 

Quick  as  a  flash,  the  Kid  shoots  up  his  left  hand, 
and  with  the  heel  of  the  glove  rubs  Kennedy's  hair 
all  over  his  bullet  head,  mussin'  it  up. 

"Shut  up,  you  big  stiff!"  he  comes  back.  "When 
they  cart  you  away  from  here  in  a  couple  of  minutes, 
you'll  have  to  go  back  driving  a  truck!" 

Sweet  Papa — I  could  of  kissed  him! 

Kennedy  jumped  back  with  a  surprised  grunt,  and 
the  amazed  referee  pushes  'em  apart.  The  crowd, 
seenin'  this  unusual  byplay,  rocked  the  buildin',  and 
the  din  was  so  terrible  I  don't  believe  six  guys  heard 
the  bell. 

Kennedy  come  out  with  a  rush,  and  the  Kid  brought 
him  up  short  with  a  beautiful  left  uppercut  that  al 
most  tore  his  head  off.  They  mixed  like  a  coupla 
wildcats  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  neither  havin'  a 
advantage  and  both  fightin'  at  a  pace  that  meant  cur 
tains  in  short  order  for  somebody.  The  referee  split 
'em  up,  and  on  the  break  Kennedy  swung  a  vicious 
right  that  missed  by  inches,  for  which  he  was  warned 
by  the  referee  and  hissed  by  the  howlin'  mob.  The  Kid 
grinned  and  put  a  left  and  right  to  the  head,  but  a 
instant  later  Kennedy  staggered  him  with  a  wicked 
chop  to  the  jaw  and  a  overhand  right  to  the  face  that 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     101 

opened  up  a  old  cut  under  the  Kid's  eye.  The  gore 
blinded  him,  and  Kennedy  roughed  him  to  the  ropes, 
workin'  both  hands  to  the  body  and  face  like  a  mad 
man.  It  looked  bad  for  the  Kid,  and  the  crowd  went 
hysterical  when  Roberts  suddenly  straightened  up  and 
drove  Kennedy  back  on  his  heels  with  two  short  chops 
to  the  jaw  and  a  right  and  left  uppercut  to  the  same 
place.  Kennedy  looked  scared  and  begin  to  tin-can 
around  the  ring  with  the  Kid  chasin'  him  and  tryin' 
desperately  to  polish  him  off.  He  fin'ly  pinned  him 
in  a  neutral  corner  and  they  stood  toe  to  toe  and  slugged 
till  they  wasn't  a  guy  in  the  clubhouse  with  any  voice 
or  sense  left.  It  was  a  cinch  one  of  'em  must  flop, 
and  Kennedy  was  the  first  one  to  go.  He  pitched 
forward  on  his  face,  took  a  count  of  "nine,"  and  come 
up  a  sorry-lookin'  sight.  One  eye  was  closed,  and 
the  rest  of  his  face  was  a  crimson  blur.  He  tried  to 
dive  into  a  clinch,  but  the  Kid  shook  him  off  and 
sprawled  him  in  a  heap  with  a  terrific  right  to  the  jaw. 
The  referee  had  reached  "eight"  without  a  flicker  of  a 
muscle  from  Kennedy,  when  the  bell  rung. 

Kid  Roberts  skipped  to  his  corner  grinnin'  like  a 
schoolboy  on  Xmas  mornin'  and  wavin'  a  glove  at 
the  frenzied  crowd.  Outside  of  the  cut  under  one 
eye,  which  I  paid  a  lot  of  attention  to  durin'  the  rest, 
there  wasn't  a  mark  on  him. 

"I've  got  him!"  he  pants,  whilst  I'm  dousin'  him 
with  water.  "He'll  never  last  out  the  next  round !" 

"Shut  up,  don't  talk!"  I  growls.  "Save  your 
wind.  They  ain't  never  out  till  they're  counted 
out!" 

Kennedy  was  slow  in  gettin*  off  his  stool  for  the 


102          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

second  frame  and  the  Kid  met  him  before  he  was  out 
of  his  own  corner  with  a  smash  under  the  heart  that 
hung  him  over  the  ropes,  where  he  covered  up  and 
waited  for  it.  But  the  Kid  stepped  away,  payin'  no 
attention  to  the  groans  of  the  mob,  and  Kennedy 
suddenly  jabbed  his  left  to  the  face,  fallin'  in  and 
clinchin'  with  the  punch.  I  couldn't  figure  the  move 
till  I  seen  his  knee  come  up  with  a  jerk  and  then  I 
shrieked — but  it  was  too  late.  That  big  stiff's  bony 
kneecap  caught  the  Kid  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and 
Roberts  slid  slowly  to  the  floor,  gaspin',  his  face 
twisted  in  the  agony  of  the  lowest  foul  known  to  the 
prize  ring.  That,  of  course,  was  Kennedy's  game — 
to  cripple  the  boy.  He'd  had  enough,  and  he  wanted 
to  lose  on  a  foul  rather  than  be  knocked  out.  He'd 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  thing,  which  was 
plain  to  every  one  of  the  wildly  yelpin'  customers. 
The  referee  waved  Kennedy  to  his  corner,  and  me  and 
my  merry  men  jumped  into  the  ring  and  ran  to  the 
Kid,  which  was  now  sittin'  up  and  bitin'  his  lips 
till  they  was  a  thin  red  stream  tricklin'  down  his 
drawn  face,  but  the  look  in  his  eyes,  fastened  on 
Kennedy,  was  terrible  to  see.  We  helped  him  up 
and  started  to  half  carry  him  to  his  corner,  but  he 
pushed  us  away  and  braced  himself  against  the  ropes, 
seemin'ly  gettin'  stronger  every  second.  That  kid's 
vitality  was  remarkable!  The  referee  held  up  his 
hand  and  gradually  the  noise  died  down. 

"Gentlemen!"  he  says,  "I  award  this  bout  to  Kid 
Roberts  on  a  foul  and — " 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  uproar,  but  the  Kid  grabs 
the  referee's  arm.  "Don't  award  me  anything,"  he 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     103 

gasps.  "I  want  to  knock  that  dog  out.  Let  the  fight 
go  on — I'm  all  right!" 

The  referee's  eyes  come  near  partin'  forever  with 
his  head. 

"You're  crazy,  son!"  he  grunts.  Then,  turnin'  to 
me:  "Hey,  you  better  look  after  your  man.  Is  there 
a  doctor  in — " 

Kid  Roberts  breaks  away  from  him  and  walks  to 
the  center  of  the  ring,  holdin'  up  both  hands  and  like 
magic  the  yells  dies  away  again. 

"Gentlemen,"  says  the  Kid,  slowly  and  painfully, 
"you  came  here  to  witness  a  boxing  exhibition,  and 
unfortunately  it  has  been  interrupted.  I  am  perfectly 
willing  and  able  to  continue,  and  that's  what  I  want 
to  do !  The  referee  says  I've  been  fouled — that's  cor 
rect.  But  I'm  not  badly  hurt  and  if  I'm  willing  to  take 
a  chance,  why  shouldn't  he?" 

Sweet  Mamma — you  should  of  heard  them  babies 
out  in  front  then! 

So  many  things  come  off  in  such  sensationally  quick 
succession  after  that  that  it's  hard  to  get  'em  in  order. 
I  tried  to  drag  the  Kid  to  his  corner  and  got  shoved 
halfway  through  the  ropes.  The  mob  surged  back 
and  forth  yellin'  for  the  fight  to  go  on,  and  in  Ken 
nedy's  corner  they  took  up  the  shout.  They  was  only 
too  anxious  now.  Their  man  had  got  a  rest,  and  the 
Kid  was  plainly  all  in.  Here  was  a  chance  to  turn 
defeat  into  a  certain  knockout  for  Kennedy.  The 
referee  hesitated,  looked  out  at  the  crowd,  shook  his 
head,  and  fin'ly  threw  up  his  hands  and  walked  to 
the  ropes.  Somebody  rung  the  bell,  and,  like  a  flash, 
Kennedy  was  off  his  stool,  plungin'  at  the  Kid,  which 


104          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

turned  to  meet  him  with  a  twisted  grin.  The  referee 
hollered  and  started  between  'em,  caught  the  growl 
of  ten  thousand  animals,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
stepped  away.  And  then  they  were  at  it  again  like 
wild  men ! 

A  fight,  what? 

The  first  solid  wallop  the  Kid  landed  showed  Ken 
nedy  what  a  simp  he  was  to  think  Roberts  was  the  same 
as  out.  It  broke  his  nose  and  made  him  a  study  in 
red  from  chin  to  hips.  He  began  back-pedalin'  again, 
but  the  Kid  gave  him  no  chance.  He  punched  him 
from  pillar  to  post,  from  one  side  of  the  ring  to  the 
other.  He  hit  him  with  every  blow  known  to  boxin', 
and  inside  of  a  minute  had  him  flounderin'  blindly 
about  the  ring,  drunk  with  punishment.  A  hurricane 
of  left  and  right  hooks  almost  knocked  Kennedy 
through  the  ropes,  and  swish — a  sponge  came  hurtlin' 
into  the  ring  from  his  corner.  It  rolled  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform,  quivered  there  a  minute,  and  then 
the  blazin'-eyed  referee  with  a  flick  of  his  heel  sent 
it  spinnin'  down  on  the  reporters. 

"Fight,  you  yellah  bum!"  he  roars  in  Kennedy's 
battered  ear.  "You  wanted  it;  now  take  it!" 

Kennedy,  seein'  they  was  no  way  out  of  it,  stag 
gered  forward  and  swung  wildly  with  both  hands. 
The  Kid  laughed  out  loud,  measured  him  with  his 
left,  and  floored  him  with  a  right  cross  to  the  button 
of  the  jaw.  Kennedy,  glassy-eyed,  rolled  over  on  his 
back  at  "six,"  gazed  up  at  the  Kid  he  had  tried  to 
maim  for  life  a  few  minutes  back,  and  waved  a  weak 
hand. 

"I — got — enough!"  he  pants  and  quit  like  a  dog! 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     105 

Then,  with  a  happy  smile  on  his  lips,  Kid  Roberts 
slid  through  my  arms  to  the  canvas  in  a  dead  faint. 

It  was  three  or  four  days  after  we  got  back  to 
New  York  again  before  I  had  the  pleasure  of  viewin' 
Miss  Mabel  Murray,  the  fascinatin'  cigar  seller.  I 
went  over  to  the  stand  to  buy  a  paper,  and  she  pre 
sented  me  with  a  killin'  smile,  callin'  me  up  to  her 
end  of  the  counter  with  a  charmin'ly  intimate  nod. 
"Say!"  she  says.  "That  bird  Halliday  must  of  figured 
I  just  got  shipped  in  here  from  Hensfoot  Corners  or 
somethin',  didn't  he?" 

"Why?"  I  says,  with  the  greatest  of  interest. 

"Well,"  she  says,  confidentially,  "I'll  tell  you. 
Y'know,  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  there's  worse  lookers 
than  me,  and  I  gotta  stand  for  a  lotta  kiddin'  durin' 
the  hours  I  put  in  here  every  day  sellin'  these  here 
Roperinos  to  the  male's  sex.  I  get  four-flushed  to 
death  from  8  a.  m.  to  5  p.  m.  daily  except  Sunday, 
by  everything  from  travelin'  salesmen  to  risin'  young 
bill  clerks,  which  can't  control  their  generosity  and 
crave  my  company  at  lunch  and  so  forth.  Accordin' 
to  them,  they're  all  millionaires'  sons  in  disguise  or 
black  sheeps  of  grand  old  families,  and  none  of  'em 
makes  less  than  $5,000  a  week,  not  countin'  tips.  Of 
course  all  this  goes  in  one  ear  and  out  another  with 
me,  but  I  thought  this  Halliday  was  different.  He's 
such  a  good  looker,  his  manners  would  make  a  head 
waiter  look  like  a  stevedore,  and  his  language — well, 
half  the  time  I  didn't  even  know  what  he  was  talkin' 
about!  I  admit  I  was  on  the  verge  of  fallin'  for 
him —  Mother  mine,  how  he  can  dance !  But  I 
found  out  yesterday  I'd  been  bunked  again." 


106          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"I  don't  make  you,  kid,"  I  says.  "What  did  the 
boy  do?" 

She  leans  over  and  grins. 

"Say,"  she  says.  "It's  a  scream!  He  comes  over 
here  very  serious  and  says  he's  got  somethin'  im 
portant  to  tell  me — somethin'  I  gotta  know  before  our 
friendship  can  go  any  farther,  get  me?  Of  course 
I  had  him  pegged  from  the  go  in  for  what  he  is — one 
of  them  tea-room  boys  which  will  stop  at  nothin'  but 
work!  Naturally,  I  figured  he  was  about  to  make  a 
touch.  What  d'ye  think  he  told  me?" 

"Shoot !"  I  says.    "I  never  win  a  guess  in  my  life." 

She  leans  back  and  busts  right  out  laughin'. 

"He  claims  he's  Kid  Roberts,  the  prize  fighter," 
she  chortles.  "That  bird  a  fighter!  Say,  if  anybody 
ever  threatened  to  wallop  him,  he'd  pass  away  in  a 
swoon !  How  is  it  that  none  of  you  guys  can  ever  tell 
a  woman  the  truth?" 


ROUND  FIVE 
THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREWD 

ONE  of  the  unusually  interestm'  courses  at  my 
college,  viz.,  the  University  of  Experience,  is  the  study 
of  laughter — prob'ly  the  most  abused  and  powerful 
single  agent  for  good  or  bad  in  the  world.  They's 
no  doubt  that  many's  the  delicate  situation  has  been 
saved  by  a  well-placed  giggle,  but  far  more  cases  has 
been  shot  to  pieces  by  a  poorly  timed  one.  A  good- 
natured  laugh  for  the  example,  has  frequently  been 
known  to  prevent  murder,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
billions  of  guys  has  been  bumped  off  for  no  more 
cause  than  a  single,  sneerin'  grin.  The  chuckle  is  the 
boob's  natural  defense  and  the  wise  guy's  offense,  and 
it's  a  beaucoup  dangerous  weapon  either  way! 

But,  in  mass  formation,  the  humble  titter  stands 
alone  as  a  maker  or  breaker  of  men !  The  laugh  of  the 
mob  has  kept  Chaplin  away  from  the  almshouse  and 
Bryan  away  from  the  White  House.  They  guffawed 
Henry  Ford  into  a  fortune  and  Doc  Cook  out  of  one. 
The  Wright  brothers  was  showered  with  snickers, 
but  they  fin'ly  made  the  world  fly  and  the  Anti-Saloon 
League,  a  long-standin'  object  of  mirth,  is  fin'ly  makin' 
it  dry. 

So  ridicule  is  roast  duck  to  some  guys  and  carbolic 
107 


108          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

to  others.  It's  stung  thousands  of  losers  into  gettin' 
across  and  thousands  of  winners  into  gettin'  the  rasp 
berry.  I  could  undoubtlessly  trot  out  a  hundred  cases 
of  both,  but  a  glance  at  the  daily  papers  will  supply 
you  with  much  fresher  lists  than  I  got.  However, 
boys  and  girls,  if  you'll  keep  your  lustrous  eyes  glued 
to  the  followin'  pages  for  a  few  minutes,  I  will  give 
you  a  sensational  example  of  how  the  jeerin'  chortle 
of  a  mob  queered  one  of  the  most  shrewdly  crooked 
schemes  I  ever  was  framed  for,  whilst  as  a  box-fight 
impresario  I  was  endeavorin'  to  make  Kid  Roberts 
reignin'  king  of  the  Leather  Pushers.  After  the  Ken 
nedy  muss,  I  took  the  Kid  for  a  dash  around  the  usual 
heavyweight  circuit  from  Harlem  to  Frisco,  takin'  on 
all  comers  and  always  bellerin'  for  a  muss  with  the 
champ.  The  Kid  made  Annette  Kellermanns  out  of 
the  bulk  of  his  men,  and  the  high  divin'  which  was  had 
on  that  trip  would  of  caused  the  extremely  fair  Ann  to 
give  up  the  swimmin'  game  in  disgust! 

Out  of  twelve  guys  he  went  versus  with,  six  of  'em 
succumbed  to  the  sleepin'  sickness  in  from  one  to 
three  rounds,  three  lasted  less  than  a  minute,  two  scraps 
was  stopped  to  save  the  Kid  from  a  manslaughter 
charge;  and  one  bird  stayed  ten  frames  and  was  pre 
sented  with  a  draw  by  a  referee  which  had  to  be  gave 
aid  and  succor  by  the  cops  immediately  after  he  whis 
pered  his  decision  to  the  stupefied  crowd.  The  gent 
which  went  the  limit  with  the  Kid  was  called  Tiger 
Capato.  As  they  remarked  when  Roosevelt  was  a 
infant,  you'll  hear  more  about  that  guy  later. 

As  we  stood  to  date,  we'd  had  sixteen  quarrels  and 
win  fourteen  by  knockouts,  and  if  that  ain't  a  record 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     109 

to  get  chesty  about,  then  neither  was  Napoleon's! 
Also,  we'd  gathered  together  numerous  shekels  and 
our  guarantees  now  run  from  $3,000  to  $7,000  a  fight, 
accordin'  to  where  it  was  and  with  which.  Seven 
thousand  berries  is  interestin'  money  even  to  Charley 
Schwab,  and  /  was  satisfied  to  leave  well  enough 
alone  and  go  right  back  over  the  trail  bouncin'  them 
same  babies  once  more  for  auld  lang  sang  and,  of 
course,  the  pennies.  But,  brother,  it  was  all  different 
with  my  food  card,  Kid  Roberts.  That  boy  was  as 
full  of  ambition  as  Pancho  Villa  and  he  wanted  the 
champion  now  or  nobody!  He  still  hated  the  box- 
fight  game  from  pit  to  dome  and  had  swore  on  several 
phone  books  that  the  minute  he  win  the  title  and 
copped  one  large,  juicy  purse,  he'd  leave  the  ring 
flat  on  its  back  and  go  in  some  business.  A  business, 
for  the  example,  where,  if  anybody  kept  wavin'  a 
dirty  towel  up  and  down  in  front  of  him,  he  would  at 
the  least  have  the  pleasure  of  throwin'  him  out  of  his 
office,  instead  of  havin'  to  sit  on  a  backless  stool  and 
like  it,  as  he  did  now ! 

How  the  soever,  the  champ  turned  a  bevy  of  deaf 
ears  to  our  frenzied  demands  for  a  crack  at  his  crown 
and  we  might  as  well  of  tried  to  pick  a  fight  with  a 
nervous  rabbit.  In  the  two  years  he'd  held  the  title, 
this  cuckoo  had  fought  exactly  901  guys — one  set 
up  which  lasted  four  rounds  and  900  movie  supers 
which  lasted  four  reels.  He  was  out  on  the  goldiest 
gold  coast  of  America,  or,  to  get  technical,  Los 
Angeles,  Calipickford,  makin'  a  picture  labeled  "Up 
from  the  Gutter  and  Half  Ways  Back"  or  "From 
Deckhand  to  Champion!"  The  screen  slave  drivers 


110  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

had  him  sewed  up  for  several  months  on  a  chilled-steel 
contract  callin'  for  a  couple  of  hours'  work  every  sun 
shiny  day  at  a  niggardly  pittance  of  $60,000  cash 
and  10  per  cent  of  the  loot  from  the  film.  Likewise 
he  was  allowed  to  wear  white  flannel  pants  and  make 
up  his  eyebrows  in  the  last  reel,  and  the  Jane  which 
took  off  the  part  of  the  innocent  little  damsel  he 
rescued  from  the  Home  for  Wayward  Girls,  or  the 
like,  was  a  second  Diana. 

Now  did  that  bird  want  to  hurl  all  this  overboard, 
go  into  heavy  trainin'  for  a  coupla  months  and  then 
get  roughed  and  jostled  all  over  a  ring  by  my  young 
bone  crusher?  Sweet  Spirits  of  Niter — NO!! 

But  the  indignant  sport  writers  come  to  our  as 
sistance  and  without  no  preliminary  warnin'  opened 
up  with  their  heavy  guns  on  the  peacefully  inclined 
heavyweight  champion  of  our  present  world.  All  the 
ways  across  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean,  them 
guys  begin  runnin'  pictures  of  Kid  Roberts  with  his 
amazin'  casualty  list  alongside  of  'em — then  they  took 
their  typewriters  in  hand  and  let  the  keys  run  wild! 

In  the  first  place,  Kid  Roberts  was  always  what  is 
known  as  "good  copy"  in  the  newspaper  game.  Just 
gaze  over  the  layout  again;  it'll  only  take  a  second. 
Here  was  a  ex-famous  college  star  who'd  entered  the 
prize  ring  to  put  his  bankrupt  father  on  his  feet,  who 
against  all  the  dope  was  knockin'  everybody  dead, 
whose  heiress  had  gave  him  the  gate  on  the  strength  of 
it  and  who'd  fin'ly  punched  his  way  to  a  chance  at  the 
world's  championship.  There  we  have  as  much  ro 
mance,  human  interest,  thrill,  and  suspense  as  they  was 
in  the  French  Revolution,  as  some  bird  wrote  after 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     111 

samplin'  one  of  them  new  antidotes  for  prohibition. 
Was  a  guy  which  had  did  all  that  to  be  kept  from  the 
happy  endin'  ?  Far  be  it  from  such ! 

So  the  young  men  went  at  the  thing  with  a  will, 
printin'  the  actor-champ's  somewhat  mild  record  oppo 
site  the  Kid's  and  demandin'  that  he  leave  the  bathin' 
beauties  be  and  defend  his  title  like  a  gent  and  a 
scholar,  or  else  resign  and  concede  it  to  the  Kid.  Half 
a  million  bucks  wouldn't  of  bought  the  publicity  we 
was  gettin'  every  day,  and  it  didn't  cost  me  a  pleasant 
smile.  The  big,  handsome  Kid's  personality,  the  air 
of  class  his  blood  and  college  had  gave  him,  and  his 
willin'ness  to  fight  anybody  but  the  battleship  Penn 
sylvania,  put  'em  in  back  of  him  to  a  man.  They's  no 
squarer  shooter  or  better  sport  on  the  earth  than  your 
average  newspaper  guy.  Likewise  I  discovered  a 
long  ways  back  that  he's  a  great  guy  to  have  in  your 
corner  and  a  tough  one  to  have  off  of  you.  Show  him 
you  got  the  merchandise  and  he'll  drop  everything  to 
help  you  deliver  it,  but  try  and  slip  one  over  on  him 
and  Sweet  Mamma — he  shakes  a  nasty  ink ! 

The  champ  simply  grinned  at  this  newspaper  bar 
rage,  but  the  guys  which  had  sank  their  sugar  in  his 
movie  didn't !  Contrary  to  the  layman's  opinion,  they 
is  several  ounces  of  brains  invested  in  the  films,  and 
these  birds  seen  immediately  that,  unless  their  boxer 
star  come  out  of  his  hole  and  made  a  noise  like  a  scrap 
per,  his  ten-reeler  was  due  to  be  a  terrible  bust. 
Already  advance  announcements  of  it  was  beginnin'  to 
draw  some  scattered  hisses  hithers  and  yon,  and  the 
panic  was  on ! 


112  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

It's  unfortunately  true  that  our  dear  old  hard- 
workin'  U.  S.  likes  to  relax  every  now  and  then  and 
gets  hysterical  over  them  foreign  whatnots  which 
comes  here  to  grab  off  some  real  dough  for  a  change 
and  then  goes  back  and  roasts  us  to  a  fare-thee-well. 
But  in  spite  of  this  slight  weakness,  we  are  far  from  a 
nation  of  come-ons,  as  many  of  them  patronizin'  tour 
ists  discovered,  after  the  first  wild  cheers  had  died  out. 
We  don't  care  how  much  we  spend  for  our  toys,  but 
we  do  wanna  see  'em  go !  We  insist  that  our  plumbers 
plumb,  our  bankers  bank,  our  actors  act,  and  our 
fighters  fight.  We  allow  no  guy  to  stall  unless  he  gets 
sentenced  to  Congress — the  only  cruel  and  unusual 
punishment  now  legal  under  our  punch-drunk  Con 
stitution  ! 

Well,  after  a  conference  with  his  manager,  press 
agents,  and  photoplay  magnates,  the  champ  presented 
the  press  with  a  statement  in  which  he  claimed  he'd  be 
willin'  to  listen  to  us  on  the  subject  of  fisticuffs  the 
minute  he  laid  off  elevatin'  the  screen,  or,  in  the  other 
words,  three  months.  In  the  mean's  while,  we  wouldst 
have  to  dispose  of  the  Hon.  Tiger  Capato,  the  only 
heavy  in  captivity  which  Kid  Roberts  had  been  unable 
to  make  kiss  the  canvas  and  recline  thereon  till  the 
referee  had  pronounced  him  dead. 

The  Kid  almost  wept  for  joy  when  the  news  reached 
him  that  he  was  gonna  get  a  crack  at  the  world's  cham 
pionship.  He  tore  into  our  bower  at  the  big-league 
hotel  we  was  stablin'  at  now,  wavin'  a  bunch  of  evenin' 
papers  and  grinnin'  like  a  second  Fairbanks. 

"Six  months  from  now  I'll  be  champion !"  he  yells, 
with  a  slap  on  my  back  that  loosened  four  buttons  on 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     113 

the  front  of  my  vest.  "Then  one  scrap  for  a  couple 
of  hundred  thousand  and  I'm  through!  I'll  throw  my 
title  to  the  pack  and  let  'em  fight  it,  while  I'll — 

"Whilst  you'll  blow  your  end  of  the  gate,  go  broke 
and  come  back  to  the  hit-and-run  game  again !"  I  butts 
in.  "Listen,  young  feller,  don't  feed  me  none  of  that 
desertin'-the-ring-stuff — I  was  engaged  in  the  gift  of 
pilotin'  pugs  when  you  thought  a  uppercut  was  a  euchre 
term.  Once  the  heavy  money,  the  thrill  of  landin'  a 
perfectly  timed  right  cross,  the  screamin'  mob,  the 
bein'  constantly  in  the  public's  eye,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  gets  into  your  arteries,  you  can't  throw  it  off  like  a 
old  coat — and  that's  that !  No,  sir,  son ;  right  up  to  the 
time  the  embalmer  says:  'Well,  I  guess  I'll  finish  this 
one  and  then  go  home!'  you'll  be  tellin'  your  fellow 
ghosts  that  you  could  of  licked  the  current  crop  of 
heavies  in  the  same  ring  if  you  hadn't  bumped  off.  Ever 
hear  of  a  ex-champ  that  didn't  try  to  stage  a  comeback, 
regardless  of  age  or  condition?  Take  a  squint  at  the 
books — John  L.,  Corbett,  Fitzsimmons,  Jeff,  Bat  Nel 
son,  Abe  Attell,  Young  Corbett,  Lavigne,  McGovern, 
Cans,  Ritchie,  Wolgast,  Coulon,  Papke,  and  the  etc. 
All  of  them  boys  was  champs  amongst  champs  and  all 
of  'em  was  try  in'  to  crawl  out  of  the  pugilistic  ash  heap 
back  to  the  calcium  for  years  after  they'd  been  nothin' 
but  a  faint  memory  to  the  mob !" 

"Just  a  second!"  flings  the  Kid  over  his  shoulder, 
rippin'  off  his  collar  and  draggin'  out  the  shavin'  ap 
paratus.  "There's  no  comparison  between  myself 
and  those  men,  either  in  boxing  ability  or — well,  let's 
call  it  temperament.  Without  exception,  all  those 
fellows  you  rattled  off  were  born  fighters — it  was 


114  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

in  the  blood !  They  fought  for  money,  of  course,  but 
it  was  principally  the  sheer  love  of  battle  that  drove 
them  to  crawl  through  the  ropes  to  kill  or  get  killed, 
long  after  their  star  had  set.  I  am  not  a  born  pugi 
list.  I  say  that  without  any  intent  to  sneer  at  what 
might  have  been  a  great  game  if  it  could  have  been 
kept  clean!  But  it  is  a  genealogical  fact  that  I  was 
born  and  reared  in  an  entirely  different  atmosphere. 
I  have  no  love  for  professional  boxing,  and  I'm  sim 
ply  using  it  as  a  means  to  an  end." 

I  sit  and  watched  this  big  blond  shavin'  for  a  min 
ute,  feastin'  my  trained  orbs  on  the  easy  play  of  rip- 
plin'  muscle  over  them  white  shoulders  which  loomed 
up  out  of  his  summer  lingerie.  A  fighter?  Say — 
they  was  champion  wrote  all  over  him,  from  the  heel 
of  his  shoe  to  the  roof  of  his  dome!  The  only  thing 
which  spoiled  the  general  effect  was  his  intelligent 
look. 

"I  wouldst  fain  differ  with  thee,  Big  Guy,"  I  grins, 
after  a  while,  "on  the  subject  of  you  not  bein'  born 
no  fighter  and  likewise  how  ill  in  the  abdomen  the 
box-fightin'  game  makes  you.  I  admit  that,  from  the 
nursery  up  to  a  recent  date,  you  was  more  used  to 
afternoon  tea  parties  than  twenty-four-foot  rings 
and  that  in  your  first  few  brawls  you  liked  to  cried 
your  eyes  out  every  time  you  knocked  some  bimbo 
for  a  goal.  But  a  great  change  has  come  to  the  pass, 
Kid,  and  whether  you  noticed  it  or  not,  I  don't  know, 
but  7  did,  because  I'm  gettin'  paid  to  notice  every 
thing  which  is  in  the  slightest  way  connected  with 
you — get  me?  I  only  wish  I  had  a  photo  to  show 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     115 

you  of  your  last  coupla  quarrels.  I'd  particularly 
crave  one  of  the  fight  with  Soldier  Gorman  at  St. 
Paul — a  picture  of  our  meek  little  college  boy  gettin' 
floored  in  Round  One,  tearin'  out  of  my  arms  for 
Round  Two,  standin'  toe  to  toe  with  this  near  gorilla 
Gorman,  which  stood  up  to  it  to  the  extent  of  frac- 
turin'  one  of  your  ribs  before  he  went  out  cold, 
whilst  teacher's  pet,  which  hates  to  strike  anybody, 
crouched  over  him  pantin',  bloody  and  snarlin',  till 
I  had  to  drag  him  back  to  his  little  corner!  You 
sick  of  the  game?  Kid,  prize  fightin'  is  your  dish, 
and  a  flash  at  your  face  when  you  get  hurt  tells  that 
part  of  it  to  the  world!" 

He  suddenly  quit  shavin'  and  swung  around  on  me, 
with  the  razor  still  poised  in  the  air  and  his  face 
flamin'  as  red  as  a  oil-well  fire  where  it  wasn't 
lathered.  Then  that  give  way  to  a  worried  look,  as 
he  leaned  back  against  the  bureau  and  laid  down  the 
razor. 

"Gad!"  he  says.  "Is  that  a  fact?  I  seem  to  enjoy 
this  beastly  business?" 

"Oh,  easily  that!"  I  chuckles.  "You  have  took  to 
pushin'  leather  like  Theda  Bara  took  to  a  camera.  And 
another  thing,  Kid,  you  have  become  one  tough  baby — 
praise  be  Allah!  When  you're  in  there  tryin'  these 
days,  the  way  you  go  about  your  job  would  make  the 
wildest  guy  in  Borneo  swoon  away  with  pure  fright !" 

Hidin'  behind  another  blush,  the  Kid  give  vent 
to  a  disgusted  little  shiver,  looks  at  me  kinda  funny, 
and  then  takes  a  long  view  of  himself  in  the  mirror, 
like's  he's  mullin'  over  in  his  mind  what  I  have  just 
told  him. 


116  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Fin'ly  he  lets  forth  a  sigh,  picks  up  the  razor,  and 
continues  on  with  the  shavin'. 

"So  I'm  degenerating  into  a  beast,  eh?"  he  says 
half  to  himself  whilst  he  scrapes  away  viciously. 
"Well,  I'm  glad  you  called  my  attention  to  that — 
though  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  the  vapor  of 
sordid,  bestial  atmosphere  surrounding  my  present — 
eh — profession,  did  not  slightly  tarnish  the  highly 
sensitive  polish  of  some  generations  of  refinement. 
I  suppose,"  he  adds,  with  a  short  laugh,  "when  I  get 
out  of  this  infernal  game  I'll  have  to  spend  some  time 
in  a  finishing  school  before  I'll  trust  myself  to  enter 
a  drawing  room!" 

Slappin'  on  the  bay  rum,  he  was  grinnin'  again  like 
the  kid  he  was. 

"Now  about  this  Tiger  Capato,  the  fellow  I  have 
to  whip  before  I  meet" — his  voice  shook  a  bit  with 
pure,  undiluted  joy — "before  I  meet  the  champion. 
Are  you  getting  in  touch  with  him?" 

For  answer  I  pointed  to  the  bed,  which  was  clut 
tered  with  telegrams  from  every  fight  club  in  North 
America,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the  Mexican 
Senate.  We  went  over  'em  together  and  fin'ly  de 
cided  the  best  offer  come  from  New  Orleans,  the 
fracas  to  be  held  there  within  a  month  and  to  be  a 
fifteen-round  rough-house  to  a  referee's  decision. 
That  last  item  give  me  a  giggle.  In  fifteen  rounds 
Kid  Roberts  could  of  licked  850  Tiger  Capatos  and, 
as  for  the  decision  thing,  all  we  craved  was  a  guy 
which  could  count  up  to  "ten"  in  a  loud  and  melodi 
ous  voice! 

The   vulgar    financial    details    of    the   bout    was   a 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     117 

$25,000  purse  to  be  split  60-40  and  the  wire  also 
says  that  the  matchmaker  of  the  club,  with  Tiger 
Capato's  manager,  will  meet  me  at  the  Claridge  in  a 
couple  of  days,  to  post  appearance  forfeits,  sign  articles, 
and  the  like. 

I  went  down  to  the  Claridge,  as  advertised,  and  asked 
for  the  matchmaker,  bein'  immediately  escorted  to  a 
deadfall  on  the  third  floor.  I  just  missed  qualifying  for 
the  morgue  when  the  door  is  opened  by  no  less  than  the 
only  enemy  Kid  Roberts  had  in  the  wide,  wide  world, 
to  wit,  Dummy  Carney ! 

The  way  that  baby  kept  on  top  of  us  from  the  time 
he  first  laid  a  eye  on  Roberts  and  started  him  pushin' 
leather,  till  the  Kid  made  his  pile  and  quit,  was  some- 
thin'  remarkable!  Dummy  couldn't  forgive  himself 
for  lettin'  the  Kid  get  away  from  him,  and  he  swore 
he'd  never  stop  tryin'  till  a  scrapper  from  his  stable 
knocked  my  infant  prodigy  cold.  Now  he  stood  there 
with  a  twisted  smile  on  his  thick  lips  and  them  beady 
eyes  of  his  enjoyin'  my  amazement  to  the  last  inch. 

Before  I  can  let  out  a  bleat,  he  grabs  me  by  the  arm 
and  yanks  me  into  the  room. 

"Where's  the  Kid?"  he  whispers  hoarsely,  lookin' 
around. 

"Doin'  some  road  work,"  I  says,  still  up  to  my  ears 
in  astonishment.  "What  are  you  doin'  here  ?  Where's 
Capato's  manager  and — " 

Dummy  closes  the  door  and  grins.  "He's  here,"  he 
says.  "Sit  down  and  take  a  load  off  your  feet." 

"Look  here,  Dummy,"  I  says,  facin'  him.  "This 
here's  got  a  wrong  look  to  me!  I  come  here  to  sign 
articles  with  Capato's  manager,  not  to — " 


118          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Once  again  he  cuts  me  off,  this  time  handin'  me  a 
cigar.  "I'm  Capato's  manager!"  he  says  coolly. 

The  cigar  tumbled  out  of  my  hands  on  the  floor  and 
Dummy  sit  down  and  laughed  out  loud. 

"Somethin'  of  a  surprise  party,  hey?"  he  sneers. 
"Well,  what's  wrong  about  me  buyin'  Capato  from 
Eddie  Rainey — which  is  what  I  done  ?"  He  reaches  in 
his  pocket  and  flips  me  a  paper.  "There's  the  contract," 
he  says.  "As  legal  as  snowballin'  in  Iceland.  I  told 
you  I'd  get  me  a  boy  which  would  bounce  that  cuckoo 
of  yours — and  I  got  him !" 

Feelin'  more  at  ease,  I  laid  the  contract  on  a  table  and 
took  up  the  sport  of  grinnin'  myself. 

"Stop  makin'  me  laugh!"  I  remarks.  "Where's  the 
matchmaker  for  the  New  Orleans  abbattoir  that's  gonna 
stage  the  slaughter  of  your  tramp  ?" 

"Ah-heh !"  coughs  Dummy,  knockin'  the  ash  off  his 
cigar.  "Eh — I'm  the  matchmaker !" 

Sweet  Mamma ! 

"You're  one  terrible  busy  guy,  ain't  you?"  I  sneers, 
reachin'  for  my  hat  and  gettin'  up.  "Well  you  got 
nothin'  on  me — so  am  I !  The  next  time  you  wanna 
frame  somebody,  Dummy,  get  further  out  in  the  sub 
urbs.  I  was  pullin'  off  them  kinda  fights  before  you 
had  wore  out  your  first  rattle.  This  here's  gonna  make 
a  swell  story  for  the  sport  writers  to  tie  into — so  long !" 

"Sit  down  and  don't  be  no  stupider  than  you  can 
help!"  he  snarls.  "Did  I  ever  strike  you  as  bein'  a 
hick  ?  I  got  a  business  proposition  to  make  you,  durin' 
which  time  we'll  forget  our  wild  love  for  each  other  and 
let  bygones  be  bygones.  It's  about  the  last  chance  we'll 
get  to  clean  up,  no  matter  if  Capato  knocks  Kid  Roberts 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     119 

dead,  or  vice  and  versa.  The  way  I  look  at  it,  there's 
fifty  thousand  for  us  to  split,  besides  the  crack  one  of  us 
will  get  at  the  title.  D'ye  wanna  listen  ?" 

Well,  I  never  claimed  to  be  perfect ! 

A  hour  or  so  later  I  was  on  the  en  route  back  to  my 
inn,  buried  in  what  is  known  as  thought.  They  was 
nothin'  new  in  Dummy's  "business  proposition" — it's 
bein'  pulled  off  every  day  and  will  be  pulled  off 
as  long  as  the  boob  birth  rate  continues  to  run  sixty  to 
the  hour.  Unless  the  admirers  of  boxin'  as  a  sport  go 
over  it  with  a  vacuum  cleaner  toot  sweet  and  get  rid  of 
all  the  Dummy  Carney's  which  is  killin'  the  game  where- 
ever  they  sit  in  it,  prize  fightin'  is  due  to  get  the  rasp 
berry  over  here  as  sure  as  they's  a  snowflake  at  the 
North  Pole ! 

Here  was  Dummy's  layout : 

Kid  Roberts  and  Tiger  Capato  which  had  already 
fought  one  level  draw,  was  to  pull  off  another  one  in 
this  New  Orleans  burlesque.  Whilst  the  hippodrome 
lasted  it  would  be  a  wow  of  a  scrap — knockdowns,  sar 
castic  conversations,  nasty  glances,  and  even  a  little  gore 
would  be  squandered  if  necessary,  but,  come  what  may, 
it  was  to  be  a  "draw."  Everybody,  includin'  the  ref 
eree,  would  see  to  that  part  of  it !  Me  and  Dummy  was 
to  meet  by  "accident"  in  the  sportin'  editor's  office  of 
the  biggest  New  Orleans  paper  before  the  thing  and 
give  that  unsuspectin'  young  gent  ten  thousand  berries 
apiece  to  hold,  each  bettin'  that  his  man  would  cop  by  a 
knockout.  This  would  help  murder  suspicion,  besides 
gettin'  the  fight  plenty  of  advertisin'.  Twenty  thousand 
bucks  may  not  sound  like  so  much,  but  laid  down  on  the 


120  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

table  before  you  in  fifty-dollar  bills  it  looks  like  about 
twenty  million.  After  the  boys  had  "fought"  their 
draw  we'd  both  get  back  our  sugar,  of  course,  and  the 
Kid  and  Capato  was  to  be  present  when  we  collected. 
The  Kid  would  then  make  some  crack  about  bein' 
robbed  of  the  decision  and  Capato  would  immediately 
make  a  pass  at  him.  Then — warn !  They'd  both  start 
mixin'  it  up,  and  have  to  be  jimmied  apart — all  this,  re 
member,  before  the  delighted  eyes  of  the  sportin'  editor. 
Would  that  little  horseplay  smoke  up  the  return  bout? 
Well,  what  do  you  think  ? 

On  the  strength  of  the  above  drama  the  boys  would 
be  rematched  then  and  there  for  a  twenty-round  open- 
air  bout  durin'  the  Mardy  Grass  week  a  month  later. 
The  town  would  be  loaded  with  free-spendin'  tourists, 
and  the  promoters  figured  on  a  fifty-thousand-berry 
gate  if  they  got  the  breaks  on  the  weather.  This  time 
it  would  be  a  up-and-up  fight,  and  may  the  worst  man 
lose! 

Boiled  down,  the  whole  proposition  was  simply  the 
time-worn  scheme  of  drawin'  two  big  crowds  instead 
of  one,  the  fact  that  the  fans  which  paid  their  jack  to 
see  a  fight  in  the  first  mill  would  be  gypped  not  enterin' 
into  the  thing  at  all.  New  Orleans  happened  to  be 
Capato's  home  town,  and,  as  he  had  knocked  a  horde  of 
tramps  dead  down  there,  he  was  a  heavy  local  favorite. 
The  prestige  he'd  gain  by  holdin'  his  own  for  fifteen 
rounds  with  the  sensational  Kid  Roberts  would  boost 
Capato  100  per  cent  as  a  drawin'  card,  and  even  if  the 
Kid  knocked  him  kickin'  in  the  second  and  real  fight, 
he'd  still  hold  most  of  his  followin',  who'd  point  to  the 
showin'  of  the  native  son  in  the  first  argument  and  call 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     121 

his  defeat  in  the  second  a  fluke.  As  I  remarked  before, 
there  was  nothin'  new  about  this  public-be-damned 
burglary;  it's  bein'  done  day  in  day  out  by  such  man 
agers  and  such  promoters  as  would  frame  their  brothers 
for  $1.50 — and  are  doin'  their  best  to  send  professional 
boxin'  after  the  late  Jack  Barleycorn. 

Before  some  enraged  promoter,  manager,  or  the  etc. 
can  jump  up  and  holler  that  I  am  not  above  takin'  lib 
erties  with  the  truth,  I  will  mention  the  case  of  a  well- 
known  Philadelphia  lightweight  which  a  short  time  ago 
caused  a  mild  sensation  by  his  quick  knockouts  of  all 
and  sundry  which  could  be  lured  into  the  ring  with  him 
at  his  home  town.  This  baby  has  a  local  followin' 
which  would  make  Harding  think  he  was  a  man  without 
friends,  and  I  can  recall  no  better  example  of  the  facts 
I  have  set  forth  above  than  this  same  native  son.  So  re 
markable  was  this  kid's  record  that  out-of-town  sport 
writers,  which  had  only  seen  him  fight  by  the  via  of  a 
telegram  from  his  manager  after  each  of  his  sensational 
wins,  begin  mentionin'  him  as  the  logical  guy  to  remove 
the  crown  from  the  lightweight  champion. 

Then  his  manager,  carried  away  by  the  reputation  he 
himself  had  built  up  for  his  meal  ticket,  matched  him 
with  a  tough  kid  from  New  York — a  case-hardened 
veteran  which  asked  no  favors  and  had  stood  off  the 
best  of  'em.  They  all  looked  alike  to  this  boy.  It  made 
no  difference  to  him  as  long  as  he  got  his  pennies  for 
goin'  in  and  takin'  it,  or  vice  and  versa.  He'd  heard 
all  about  this  Philly  marvel  with  the  man-killin'  kick 
in  each  hand,  and  it  bothered  him  the  same  way  they 
worry  over  the  income  tax  in  the  almshouse.  It  took 
the  experienced  campaigner  about  four  seconds  flat  to 


122  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

size  up  the  other  bird  as  a  overrated  false  alarm,  and, 
havin'  got  that  all  settled,  he  panicked  the  crowd  by 
dumpin'  the  native  son  on  his  ear  with  the  first  wallop 
he  tried.  Accordin'  to  newspaper  reports,  whilst  the 
dumfounded  referee  (also  local  talent)  was  gaspin' 
forth  the  count  over  the  flattened  gladiator,  his  hyster 
ical  handlers  showered  him  with  water — which  viola 
tion  of  such  rules  as  the  game  has  brung  him  to  life 
in  time  to  stall  out  the  round.  Now,  of  course,  the 
water-throwin'  thing  should  have  immediately  dis 
qualified  that  baby,  and  the  other  kid's  manager  hollered 
murder  over  the  foul.  He  afterward  claimed  he  was 
waved  away  and  told  if  his  boy  didn't  go  on  with  the 
fight  he  wouldn't  get  a  nickel.  In  that  way  the  local 
drawin'  card  was  saved  from  a  one-round  knockout 
which  would  of  cut  in  half  his  value  to  the  Philly  fight 
promoters. 

Followin'  this  accident,  the  Quaker  City  star  went 
back  to  knockin'  over  fourth-rate  set-ups  as  of  yore. 
One  night  a  Philadelphia  city  official  dropped  in  at  the 
fight  club  where  this  boy  wonder  was  astoundin'  the 
natives  with  his  ability  to  push  leather.  Again  the  ac 
counts  state  that  five  minutes  after  the  official  had 
shoved  his  way  through  the  shriekin'  mob  to  the  ring 
side,  the  "bout"  was  stopped.  Bein'  somethin'  of  a 
sportsman,  this  guy  had  become  sickened  by  the  sight 
of  the  local  marvel  deliberately  cuttin'  up  the  helpless, 
frightened,  and  bleedin'  young  novice  which  had  been 
selected  for  the  slaughter  by  the  careful  club  manage 
ment.  After  stoppin'  the  manslaughter  the  official 
walked  over  to  the  headliner's  corner  and  warned  his 
manager  in  anything  but  drawin'-room  terms  that  un- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     123 

less  his  boy  was  more  evenly  matched  in  the  future  he 
would  not  let  him  fight  again  in  Philly. 

These  two  examples,  which  is  a  matter  of  record, 
show  how  the  local  favorite  is  built  up  and  protected 
as  a  drawin'  card  by  a  great  many  fight  clubs  whose 
coarse  work  is  responsible  for  most  of  the  agitation 
against  boxin'. 

Although  I  knew  what  the  Kid's  answer  would  be, 
I  laid  Dummy's  proposition  before  him  immediately. 
I  wound  up  by  carelessly  remarkin'  that  the  extry 
ducats  which  was  in  it  for  us  might  be  a  swell  present 
for  his  dear  old  father,  and  that  as  far  as  I  was  con 
cerned  he  could  use  his  own  judgment  about  the  thing. 
He  give  forth  a  gasp  when  I  told  him  his  old  friend 
Dummy  was  now  handlin'  Tiger  Capato,  but  he  didn't 
leap  up  and  shriek  for  Dummy's  gore  like  I  half  ex 
pected  he  would  when  he  heard  the  rest  of  it.  He  just 
come  over  and  patted  me  on  the  back  with  a  chuckle. 

"Nothing  doing,  old  man!"  he  says.  "Which,  of 
course,  is  what  I  know  you  told  that  thug.  We've 
somehow  managed  to  escape  the  stigma  of  crookedness 
so  far,  and  we'll  go  through  clean  to  the  finish!  I'm 
going  to  put  Capato  away  with  a  punch,  if  I  can,  but 
if  he  whips  me  I'll  be  the  first  to  congratulate  him. 
I  realize  I've  got  a  big  job  on  my  hands  this  time — this 
Capato  is  the  fastest  man  I've  faced  to  date,  and  he 
can  hit,  in  spite  of  what  you  say  to  the  contrary.  That 
clip  I  got  on  the  jaw  in  the  first  round  of  our  previous 
bout  had  me  dazed  for  a  couple  of  rounds  afterward !" 

"Aw,  forget  it !"  I  growls.  "You  was  away  off  form 
that  night — that's  all.  But  I'd  like  to  hand  Dummy 
somethin'  myself.  Suppose  I  let  him  think  we're  goin' 


124  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

through  with  this  proposition,  and  then  the  chances 
is  that  this  false  alarm  of  his  will  come  in  hog  fat  and 
out  of  condition — make  me?  He'll  think  the  thing  is 
framed  and  get  careless  and — " 

The  Kid  shook  his  head. 

"No — we  can't  do  that  either!"  he  says,  shuttin'  me 
off.  "That's  all  wrong  too.  It  would  mean  a  step 
down  to  Carney's  level — a  first  step  that  might  lead  us 
through  the  whole  vile  labyrinth  before  we  could  stop. 
No,  this  bout  will  be  absolutely  square,  regardless  of 
the  outcome.  You  had  better  warn  Carney  to  have  his 
man  fit,  because,  win  or  lose,  Capato  will  know  he  has 
been  in  a  fight,  I  promise  you!" 

"But  look  here,  Kid,"  I  says  impatiently,  "that 
honest-as-the-day-is-long  stuff  is  O.  K.  in  copy  books 
and  the  like,  but  this  here's  a  game  where  a  guy  has 
got  to  use  his  head  as  well  as  his  hands !  There's 
angles  to  it  that  you'll  prob'ly  never  get,  and,  with  what 
we  got  at  stake,  we'd  be  a  coupla  fine  bimbos  if  we 
didn't  grab  every  advantage.  Another  thing,  don't 
you  suppose  that  Dummy  Carney  is  figurin'  on  crossin' 
us?  D'ye  think  I  fell  for  that  draw  thing?  That 
crook's  got  a  coupla  aces  he  ain't  played  yet,  and  we  got 
a  right  to  protect  ourselves,  ain't  we  ?" 

The  Kid  grins  and  holds  up  his  hands. 

"Here's  plenty  of  protection!"  he  says.  "Now  let's 
go  to  a  show  and  forget  about  Dummy  and  his  fellow 
banditti.  We'll  enter  no  agreements  with  him  or  any 
one  else.  My  self-respect  is  about  all  I've  managed  to 
hold  on  to,  and  I  wouldn't  sacrifice  that  for  the  champ 
ionship  itself !" 

Can  you  beat  them  college  guys?    Now  you  can  get 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     125 

a  idea  of  how  valuable  a  manager  is  to  one  of  them 
babes  in  arms,  hey  ? 

I  went  to  look  for  Dummy  to  break  the  bad  news 
to  him,  and  found  he  had  wafted  himself  away  to  New 
Orleans  to  get  things  under  way  for  the  brawl;  but 
whilst  threadin'  through  Times  Square  I  bump  into 
no  less  than  Jack  Easton,  the  champion's  manager. 
Jacques  had  unquestionably  excavated  a  joint  where 
they  thought  the  Eighteenth  Amendment  was  a  vaude 
ville  act,  and  he  was  lit  up  like  Broadway  at  eight  in 
the  p.  m.  From  the  welcome  he  gimme  I  could  of  been 
his  father.  After  we  have  exchanged  the  usual  lies 
about  how  we  are  makin'  out,  Jack  won't  have  it  no 
other  way  but  that  I  step  around  to  his  oasis  and 
knock  over  a  powder  with  him,  and  I — well,  you  know 
how  weak  the  average  man  is !  Besides,  I  figured  here 
was  a  good  chance  to  get  some  inside  dope  on  the 
champ's  condition  and  the  etc.  So  we  duck  around  the 
corner  to  this  den  of  iniquity,  and  after  we  have 
sneaked  a  couple  past  our  pleasantly  surprised  tonsils, 
Jack  gets  exceedin'ly  talkative. 

"C'mon !"  he  says,  weavin'  back  and  forth  in  front 
of  me.  "Lesh  lap  up  large  quantities  of  hooch!  I'm 
looser 'en  a  pail  of  ashes  to-day — gonna  sign  a  seventy - 
five-thousan' — 'scuse  me — movie  contract  for  the  Big 
Feller  in  the  mornin'." 

"Well,  Jack,  go  to  it,"  I  says.  "You  better  take 
them  movie  guys  whilst  the  takin'  is  good,  because  next 
year  I'll  be  handlin'  a  champion !" 

"Humph!"  he  mutters.  "You're  gonna  han'le — 
gonna  han'le  shamp,  heh?  Stop  kiddin'  yourself,  stop 
kiddin' — 'scuse  me,  mush  have  caught  the  hecups  from 


126  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

that — that  bartender  there.  What  was  I  tryin'  to  say? 
Oh,  Kid  Robersh.  Well,  say,  they's  as  mush  chance 
Kid  Robersh  bein'  shampeen  as  they  ish  of  me  becomin' 
total  'stainer!  Howsh  Kid  Robersh  gonna  be  shamp 
if  he  don't  never  under  no  circumstances  get  a  chance 
at  the  title?  Ansher  me  that,  heh?" 

I  commenced  to  smell  large  quantities  of  rats  in  this 
drunken  talk,  especially  after  Dummy  Carney's  propo 
sition,  so  I  quietly  lead  Monsieur  Jack  Easton  into  the 
back  room  and  sit  down  at  a  table  with  him.  When 
I  left  him  sprawled  out  there,  gettin'  the  bartender 
nervous  with  his  snores  some  time  later,  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  hydrophobia,  and  I  think  if  Dummy  Carney 
had  come  along  then  I  would  of  took  a  chance  and 
croaked  him  for  luck! 

It  set  me  back  seven  rounds  of  drinks,  or,  in  the  other 
words,  $14,  to  find  out  that  Dummy  had  framed  me  and 
the  Kid  like  Delia  framed  Samson.  There  wasn't 
gonna  be  no  "draw"  decision  at  New  Orleans.  There 
wasn't  gonna  be  no  second  fight,  and  the  champ  wasn't 
gonna  ever  meet  Kid  Roberts  if  he  could  help  it !  The 
half -plastered  Easton  let  all  that  fall  from  his  silly- 
lookin'  face  some  time  between  the  fifth  and  sixth  shot 
of  grain  alcohol,  when  he  couldn't  even  recall  who  I  was. 
The  big  tramp  which  held  the  title  didn't  want  no  part 
of  Kid  Roberts — what  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  meet 
Tiger  Capato,  which  same  he  figured  would  be  a  spread 
for  him.  Therefore,  Capato  was  to  put  the  Kid  away 
in  the  battle  of  New  Orleans  and  kill  off  our  claims 
to  a  championship  mill.  The  knockout  was  to  come 
in  Round  Four,  by  the  way. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     127 

In  order  to  guarantee  my  boy  goin'  out,  Carney  and 
the  yeggs  which  run  this  particular  club  had  decided 
to  pull  one  of  the  rawest  stunts  known  to  a  game  which 
packs  more  tricks  than  Houdini  ever  seen.  This  one 
has  been  staged  dozens  of  times  out  in  the  bushes,  but 
very  rarely  on  the  Big  Time.  It's  usually  pulled  to  allow 
a  beaten  man  a  few  extry  minutes  to  recover,  but  I 
never  heard  of  it  bein'  used  for  the  purpose  Dummy 
Carney  had  figured  it  for  against  Kid  Roberts. 

Exactly  at  the  end  of  the  first  minute's  boxin'  in 
Round  Four  every  light  in  the  clubhouse  would  sud 
denly  grow  dim  and  then  go  out  for  ten  seconds !  Kid 
Roberts,  knowin'  nothin'  about  this,  would  be  as  much 
startled  as  the  crowd — certainly  he'd  falter  in  his  stride, 
drop  his  hands  and  prob'ly  step  back  to  wait  for  light- 
But  Tiger  Capato,  havin'  nothin'  else  but  this  "accident" 
in  his  mind  for  weeks,  would  be  prepared.  The  first 
slight  dimmin'  of  the  glare  about  the  ring  was  to  be  the 
tip-off  to  him,  and  he'd  start  one  from  the  floor  just 
as  it  went  black.  It  was  a  hundred  to  one  he'd  connect, 
and  when  the  lights  immediately  flashed  up  again,  Kid 
Roberts  would  be  as  cold  as  a  pawnbroker's  eye,  and 
that  guy  which  pulled  the  switch  in  the  basement  would 
be  several  blocks  away  from  there  and  still  travelin'. 
Then  the  announcer  was  to  jump  into  the  ring,  calm 
the  crowd  by  explainin'  that  it  was  simply  a  case  of  a 
fuse  blowin'  out,  and  order  the  quarrel  started  again 
at  once!  Now,  even  if  the  Kid  was  in  any  condition 
to  get  to  the  middle  of  the  ring,  he'd  be  a  dazed  mark 
for  Capato  then.  The  guys  close  to  the  ropes  would 
of  seen  Capato  start  a  wallop,  and  their  opinion  would 
be  divided  over  the  thing  in  the  excitement.  Many 


128  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

would  claim  that,  as  neither  boy  could  of  known  that 
a  fuse  was  gonna  blow  out,  the  break  was  as  fair  for 
one  as  the  other,  and  Capato  had  simply  been  lucky, 
or  clever,  enough  to  beat  the  Kid  to  the  punch.  The 
rest  of  the  mob  wouldn't  know  what  it  was  all  about, 
but  they'd  see  the  Kid  on  the  floor,  and  that  would  be 
ample.  Remember,  it  was  Tiger  Capato's  home  town ! 
As  to  this  "lights  out"  stuff,  any  sportin'  editor  can 
supply  names  and  dates  of  duplicates  of  the  above 
sportsmanlike  trick  from  his  files  to  such  gentle  read 
ers  which  is  now  grinnin'  and  callin'  it  impossible. 

Well,  as  the  time  drawed  near  for  the  fight,  I  got 
crazier  every  day.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  Carney  I'm  wise 
to  his  plant  for  fear  he'd  call  the  bout  off  altogether 
and  give  the  champ  the  excuse  he  was  lookin'  for  to 
duck  a  battle  with  us.  To  make  it  worse,  when  I  told 
the  Kid  what  I'd  found  out,  he  laughed  his  head  off 
and  refused  to  believe  it ! 

"Your  mind  has  been  preying  on  Dummy  Carney  for 
so  long  you'd  believe  anything!"  he  chortles.  "Why, 
the  thing's  too  preposterous  to  give  a  passing  thought. 
Besides,  you  say  yourself  that  your  source  of  informa 
tion  was  a  drunken  man,  and  you  know  an  intoxicated 
person  usually  has  a  wonderful  imagination.  Not  even 
a  Carney  would  dare  attempt  anything  as  glaringly 
crooked  as  that — personally,  I  think  the  champion's 
manager  has  been  joshin'  you  !" 

Sweet  Papa! 

Any  doubts  I  might  of  had  about  it  myself  was  all 
wiped  away  in  New  Orleans  a  few  hours  before  the 
clash,  when  word  comes  to  our  room  that  a  lady  has 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     129 

got  to  see  Kid  Roberts  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
I  could  of  choked  the  bell  hop  silly  which  brung  up 
that  sensational  news  because  the  damosels  had  been 
poison  to  the  Kid  up  to  date,  and  here  on  the  brinks 
of  the  biggest  fight  in  his  career  a  Jane  has  got  to  butt 
in! 

"Nothin'  stirrin' !"  I  shouted  to  the  boy.  "Git  outa 
here  and  close  that  door !"  Me  and  a  coupla  handlers 
had  the  Kid  flat  on  the  bed,  givin'  him  a  final  body 
massage. 

"Here — just  a  minute !"  pipes  Roberts,  sittin'  up  with 
a  jerk.  "Let's  see  what  this  is.  I  do  not  know  why 
any  lady  should  want  to  see  me  now,  but  if  it's  as  im 
portant  as  that — "  He  reaches  for  a  bath  robe.  "Have 
the  lady  come  up !"  he  tells  the  wide-eyed  boy. 

There  is  a  timid  knock  at  the  door  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  in  comes  said  lady.  She's  a  thin,  little,  kinda  wore- 
out  dame,  but  very  soothin'  to  the  eyes  at  that.  Her 
first  bomb  is  that  she  will  see  Kid  Roberts  alone  or  not 
at  all,  and  she  seems  terrible  worked  up.  Without  a 
word  to  us  the  Kid  bows,  opens  the  door  to  the  sittin' 
room  of  this  suite,  ushers  her  in,  and  follows,  closin' 
the  door  before  I  could  make  a  move. 

The  conference  lasts  about  ten  minutes,  durin'  which 
time  I  died  about  seven  times  and  cussed  myself  to 
death  seven  more  for  lettin'  the  Kid  get  out  of  my 
sight!  The  mysterious  female  goes  right  to  the  hall 
door,  shakes  the  Kid's  hand,  makes  him  a  present  of 
a  soulful  glance,  and  blows. 

"Well,  what  the—"  I  begins. 

"That,"  says  the  Kid  very  solemnly,  "that — was 
Tiger  Capato's  wife!  A  very  sweet,  wholesome  little 


130          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

woman  and  the  mother  of  four  children.  She — eh — 
ah — she  is  afraid — well,  she — this  may  sound  absurd 
to  you,  but  it  didn't  to  me,  not  with  the  pathetic  eager 
ness  she  told  it !  She  had  a  dream  last  night  in  which 
she  saw  Capato — her  husband — knocked  out.  As  I  say, 
you  will  smile,  but,  nevertheless,  that  woman  is  con 
vinced  that  Capato  is  going  to  lose.  I — ah — wish  / 
were  as  certain !"  he  adds,  with  a  short  laugh.  "How 
ever,  she  has  asked  me  to  do  her  a  favor,  which, 
under  the  circumstances,  I  could  not  well  refuse. 
I—" 

"For  God's  sake,  what  have  you  promised  her,  Kid?" 
I  bawls,  grabbin'  him. 

"Don't  get  excited!"  he  says,  movin*  away  irritably. 
"As  she  explains  it,  Capato  is  married  and  has  child 
ren.  Prize  fighting  is  his  profession — it's  the  only 
thing  he  has  ever  done  or  can  do  well  enough  to  make 
a  living.  He's  a  big  favorite  in  this  town,  and  a  quick 
defeat  would  hurt  his  value  to  the  clubs  here  to  a  great 
extent.  Capato's  wife  simply  wants  me  to  allow  him  to 
make  some  kind  of  a  showing  for  a  few  rounds — I  tell 
you,  she  is  as  certain  that  he  will  ultimately  lose  as  I 
am  of  my  name !  She  sat  there  and  repeated  it  over 
and  over  in  a  dull,  toneless  voice,  with  the  fatalistic 
calm  that  is  peculiar  to  the  superstitious.  You  do 
not  understand  her  type  —  I  do.  So,  therefore,  I 
will—" 

"You'll  knock  Capato  dead  with  the  first  punch  if 
you  can,  or  you'll  leave  the  ring  on  a  shutter !"  I  howls, 
dancin'  around  him.  "You  big  fathead,  don't  you  see 
now  that  Jack  Easton's  dope  was  right  ?  They  got  that 
lights-out  stunt  framed  for  the  fourth  round,  and  she 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     131 

simply  wants  to  make  sure  that  Capato  will  be  in  the 
ring  up  to  then !  Them  guys  is  leavin'  nothin'  to  chance. 
They—" 

"Oh,  stop  it!"  barks  the  Kid.  "Hang  it,  man,  you 
get  on  my  nerves  with  your  morbid  belief  that  every 
one  is  crooked !  You've  got  me  all  upset  now  with  your 
infernal  nagging.  Let  me  alone  before  I  go  to  pieces 
and  make  a  spectacle  of  myself  in  front  of  that  crowd. 
If  I  didn't  feel  capable  of  taking  care  of  myself,  I 
wouldn't  enter  the  ring.  I'll  let  Capato  stay  three  or 
four  rounds  for  his  wife's  sake,  and  then  go  after  him. 
I  told  that  poor,  worried  little  woman  I'd  do  it,  and  I 
w ill.  Now  shut  up !" 

Up  to  the  minute  we  crawled  through  the  ropes  he 
wouldn't  budge  a  scant  inch  from  that. 

As  a  last  desperate  resort  I  grabbed  hold  of  a  sport 
writer  and  spilled  the  whole  story  in  his  doubtin'  ears, 
so  that  when  the  fourth  round  did  arrive  I'd  at  the 
least  be  able  to  stop  the  fight  and  expose  Dummy 
from  the  ring.  You  see,  I  had  it  doped  out  that  the 
guy  they'd  planted  at  the  switch  in  the  basement  would 
have  a  certain  hour  and  minute  to  snap  off  the  lights, 
and  if  I  could  jump  into  the  ring  and  time  my  speech 
properly  the  house  would  go  dark  right  at  the  end  of 
it,  provin'  that  I  was  tellin'  the  truth.  The  sport 
writer  warmed  up  as  I  went  on  with  the  thing,  and 
ended  by  tellin'  me  not  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  any 
body  else.  He  says  if  it  was  true  it  would  be  a  whale 
of  a  yarn  for  his  paper,  and  if  it  wasn't  he'd  person 
ally  see  that  I  got  run  out  of  the  fight  game. 

"By  the  way,"  I  says,  "is  Capato  married?" 


132          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"No  !"  says  the  sport  writer,  scribblin'  away.  "Why?" 

"Nothin' !"  I  groans  and  staggered  over  to  the  Kid. 

There  was  all  smiles  in  Tiger  Capato's  corner  when 
I  fin'ly  went  across  to  examine  his  bandages,  and  Car 
ney  greets  me  with  a  chuckle.  I  suddenly  leaned  down 
and  stuck  my  face  right  up  to  his  ear. 

"You  pull  them  lights  and  eighty-seven  coppers  will 
be  in  this  corner,  you  rat !"  I  snarls. 

For  just  a  fraction  of  a  second  Dummy  drawed  back 
and  whitened,  and  then  he  showed  he  had  missed  his 
trade  by  not  becomin'  a  actor. 

"What's  the  idea — are  you  scared  crazy?"  he  says. 
"What's  this  stuff  about  lights  ?" 

I  says  nothin',  but  turned  my  undivided  attention  to 
Kid  Roberts.  The  boy  was  a  bundle  of  raw  nerves — 
bouncin'  up  and  down  on  his  stool,  slappin'  his  hands 
together  with  a  auick,  jerky  movement,  and  bitin'  his 
nps  as  fie  stared  out  at  the  yellin'  crowd.  Then  the 
announcer  called  over  to  us  to  come  to  the  center  for 
a  flashlight  pose,  but  you  couldn't  hear  a  word  over  the 
din.  Say — they  was  hangin'  from  the  rafters,  sittin' 
on  each  other,  millin'  all  over  the  newspaper  guys  at 
the  ringside,  and  pourin'  in  the  doors  which  the  coppers 
was  fightin'  to  close.  Out  in  the  street  some  more 
thousands  swarmed  around  waitin'  to  hear  even  some 
noise  from  inside  and  try  to  judge  how  the  battle  was 
goin'  by  that.  The  announcer  called  to  the  Kid  again, 
got  no  action,  and  motioned  to  the  time-keeper  to  get 
busy.  That  baby  slams  the  gong  for  silence  and — the 
Kid  hears  this  bell,  leaps  off  the  stool,  and  was  half 
way  across  the  ring,  both  hands  workin',  before  we 
could  grab  him ! 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     133 

The  roar  of  the  mob  hung  fire  for  a  minute,  and  then, 
as  they  took  in  the  situation,  a  yell  of  laughs  comes 
boomin'  across  the  ring  till  it  seemed  to  rattle  the 
buildin'.  Like  the  Kid,  the  crowd  was  on  edge,  nervous 
— almost  hysterical — and  the  Kid's  mistakin'  that  bell 
for  the  beginnin'  of  the  fight  busted  the  tension.  But 
the  effect  of  that  tornado  of  hee-haws  on  Kid  Roberts 
was  as  sudden  as  it  was  remarkable.  He  turned  and 
faced  the  mob,  pale  as  two  dollars  worth  of  skimmed 
milk,  and  from  the  look  he  give  'em  I  thought  for  a 
second  he  was  gonna  jump  over  the  ropes  and  go  to 
the  mat  with  the  entire  attendance!  His  lips  curled 
away  from  his  flashin'  white  teeth  in  a  snarl  like  a  bad- 
tempered  wolf's,  and  the  steady  glare  in  his  eye  caused 
friend  announcer,  which  he  wasn't  even  lookin'  at,  to 
step  hurriedly  aside.  In  a  instant  I  seen  one  chance 
in  a  million  to  crab  Dummy's  frame-up  and  crab  it  to 
the  royal  families  taste.  The  way  he  was  geared  up 
then,  Kid  Roberts  could  of  licked  the  League  of 
Nations,  and  my  job  was  to  keep  him  that  way  for  two 
more  minutes!  Keep  him  tight  strung  to  that  cold, 
blood-cravin',  murderin'  rage  before  he  could  let  down, 
think  of  Capato's  "wife,"  or — 

I  grabbed  his  arm,  let  out  one  of  them  high-pitched, 
nerve-gratin'  guffaws,  holdin'  my  side  with  my  free 
hand.  "Why,  you  big  boob !"  I  shrieks.  "D'ye  hear 
them  babies  givin'  you  the  laugh?  The  thing's  gonna 
be  a  farce!  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  My  Gawd,  I've  handled 
some  boneheads,  but  you  win  the  garage !  Sweet  Mam 
ma — you  won't  have  to  knock  Capato  dead;  he'll  die 
laughin' !" 


134  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"You  too,  eh?"  he  bites  off  through  his  set  lips,  and 
sends  me  head  over  heels  through  the  ropes  with  a 
push.  I  must  have  took  a  funny  fall,  because  off  goes 
the  mob  into  a  fresh  spasm,  and  Capato  acted  as  laugh 
leader.  They  was  still  holdin'  their  ribs  when  the  bell 
clanged  for  real;  the  newspaper  guys,  havin'  made 
ample  notes  of  all  this  stuff,  settled  back  to  watch  a 
long,  tough  fight — when,  before  the  clang  has  died  out, 
Kid  Roberts  is  plungin'  into  Tiger  Capato's  corner. 
The  Tiger  ain't  had  time  to  take  the  grin  off  his  face, 
but  the  Kid  took  it  off  with  a  left  jab  that  spun  Capato 
around  like  a  top  and  left  a  jagged,  scarlet  streak. 
There  was  no  laughin'  now — just  a  continuous  roar, 
like  a  billion  tons  of  coal  goin'  down  a  tin  chute  into 
a  empty  cellar.  Shiftin'  his  headlong  attack  without  a 
wasted  motion,  the  Kid  pinned  the  dumfounded  Capato 
against  the  ropes  in  his  own  corner  and  begins  shootin' 
lefts  and  rights  to  the  body  with  the  steady  rap,  rap, 
rap,  rap  of  a  steam  riveter.  This  guy  they  called  the 
Tiger  never  got  a  chance  to  set  before  he  was  half  ways 
out  on  his  feet.  A  newspaper  guy  next  to  me,  callin' 
the  punches  to  his  telegraph  operator,  give  it  up  in  dis 
gust  and  switches  to:  "In  the  first  two  minutes  Kid 
Roberts  belted  Capato  with  everything  but  the  club's 
franchise." 

The  frantic  shrieks  from  his  handlers  stirred  Capato 
into  tryin'  desperately  to  duck,  dodge,  cover  up,  or  dive 
into  a  clinch,  to  escape  the  hurricane  of  leather  that 
bounced  him  off  the  ropes  and  back  again,  but  he 
might  as  well  of  tried  to  stop  a  grizzly's  charge  with 
a  pea  shooter.  A  terrific  left  to  the  stomach  doubled 
him  up  like  a  match  stick  in  its  last  glow,  and,  as  his 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     135 

rollin'  head  fell  forward,  a  right  swing  connected  with 
a  crunchin'  plop  !  Dead  to  the  world,  Tiger  Capato  slid 
along  the  lower  rope,  sagged  there  for  a  second,  and 
then  slid  like  a  sack  of  flour  under  it  and  down  almost 
in  Dummy  Carney's  shakin'  arms.  The  Kid  stepped 
back  and  threw  up  his  head. 

"Laugh  at  that,  you  fools !"  he  roared,  and  walked  to 
his  corner  in  the  nearest  thing  to  silence  I  ever  met  in 
a  fight  club.  Then  the  mob  got  its  second  wind,  and 
they  must  of  heard  'em  in  Los  Angeles  and  figured 
another  quake  had  arrived. 

It  took  about  five  minutes  for  the  crowd  to  get  sane 
enough  to  even  start  for  the  doors,  and  it  took  about 
fifty  cops  to  keep  'em  out  of  the  ring.  The  Kid's  color 
had  come  back,  and  he's  interested  only  in  gettin'  my 
word  that  I  didn't  get  hurt  when  he  dumped  me  through 
the  ropes,  and  that  I  ain't  off  of  him.  He  must  of 
apologized  ninety  times  at  the  least! 

"By  Gad,  I  need  a  keeper !"  he  says,  still  grippin'  my 
hand.  "I — I  must  have  lost  my  head  completely  when 
that  crowd  gave  me  the  laugh!"  He  give  a  shiver. 
"Ten  thousand  of  them  laughing  at  me — imagine,  sit 
ting  there  and  jeering  as  if  I  were  some  sort  of  clown !" 
He  blazed  up  again  for  a  instant  and  then  looks  kinda 
shamefaced.  "Darn  it  all,"  he  says,  shakin'  his  head, 
"I've  broken  my  promise  to  Capato's  wife — I  said  I'd 
let  him  stay,  but  that  laugh  drove  everything  out  of 
my  head  but — 

"Shut  up!"  I  howls,  crazy  with  joy.  "You  done  a 
bcaucoup  job." 

A  little  guy  shoves  his  way  over  to  us.     It's  the 


136          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

sportin'  editor  I  had  told  about  Dummy's  attempt  to 
frame  us.  He  looks  sore. 

"Say!"  he  growls,  "what  kind  of  a  thing  were  you 
tryin'  to  put  over  on  me  with  that  double-crossin'  pipe 
dream  of  yours?  Of  all  the  weird  yarns  I  ever  heard, 
that  leads  the  league !  You  New  York  guys  must  think 
everybody  that  don't  live  within  subway  distance  of 
Times  Square  is  a  hick,  hey?  So  they  was  gonna  job 
that  man-eater  of  yours  in  the  fourth  round — just  like 
a  movie,  eh?  Villain  in  the  cellar  at  the  switchboard 
and  everything  else.  Shame  on  you !"  he  says,  waggin' 
his  finger  at  me  and  pullin'  out  his  watch.  "I  must 
have  had  a  wisp  of  hay  in  my  mouth  when  you  come 
along.  Let's  see  now,  the  slaughter  started  at  10  p.  m. 
on  the  dot,  and  it's  now  pretty  near  twenty  after — 
ten-nineteen,  to  be  correct — so  that  your  conspirator  in 
the  basement,  not  knowin'  that  the  party's  all  over, 
would  be  throwin'  off  that  switch  in  about  a  minute — 
which  would  have  been  shortly  after  the  start  of  the 
fatal  fourth  round.  Then  the  fiendish  Tiger  Capat — " 

He  never  finished  the  rest  of  that  because,  without 
no  warning,  every  light  in  the  place  went  out ! 


ROUND  SIX 
WHIPSAWED! 

THE  gift  of  bein'  able  to  think,  whilst  his  charmin' 
opponent  is  merrily  bouncin'  gloves  off  his  achin'  bean, 
has  turned  seemin'ly  certain  defeat  into  a  sensational 
victory  for  many's  the  battered  and  punch-drunk  box 
fighter.  Next  to  the  ability  to  knock  a  man  kickin' 
with  either  hand  and  the  heart  to  weather  a  sudden 
unexpected  hurricane  of  crushin'  rights  and  lefts  to 
the  body  or  jaw,  coolness  under  fire  is  the  most  im 
portant  part  of  the  high-class  leather  pusher's  make 
up.  Hundreds  of  promisin'  kids,  which  can  hit  like 
Caruso  can  sing  and  take  punishment  like  the  informa 
tion  clerk  at  a  railroad  station,  never  get  past  the  semi 
finals  because  the  only  use  they  make  of  their  heads 
is  to  butt  the  other  guy  with. 

They  know  that  a  punch  on  the  jaw  will  prob'ly 
knock  their  tete-a  tete  for  a  goal  if  it  lands  on  what 
is  known  to  the  trade  as  the  "button,"  and  with  that 
idea  firmly  planted  in  their  mind  they  sail  out  of  their 
corner  at  the  first  bell  and  begin  wildly  swingin'  at 
the  bobbin'  chin  in  front  of  'em  with  gusto  and 
abandon.  As  far  as  they're  concerned,  the  other  baby 
ain't  got  no  short  ribs,  kidneys,  heart,  stomach,  or 
any  of  the  other  places  where  a  well-timed  right  or 


138          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

left  smash  might  end  the  thing  and  send  the  crowd 
home  hoarse  and  rejoicin'.  They  once  flattened  a  guy 
with  a  roundhouse  swing  to  the  jaw,  and  they're  now 
convinced  that  all  they  is  to  the  art  of  box  fightin' 
is  jab  with  the  left  to  the  body  and  then,  as  friend  op 
ponent's  guard  comes  down,  cross  the  right  to  the  jaw. 
It's  comical  to  watch  them  boneheads  work  when 
they're  in  there  tryin'  with  a  cool-headed,  clever  kid 
which  gets  'em  all  figured  out  in  Round  One  and 
makes  'em  punchin'  bags  from  then  on.  The  fast 
boxer,  which  ain't  especially  fond  of  takin'  it,  knows 
they're  dangerous  right  up  to  the  last  bell,  no  matter 
how  badly  he's  outpointed  'em,  because  one  properly 
placed  clout  from  this  flounderin'  tramp  may  put 
him  out  for  half  a  hour.  So,  guessin'  their  every 
move  and  bein'  sure  of  his  own  footwork,  he  keeps 
stickin'  his  chin  invitin'ly  in  front  of  'em.  The  boob's 
eyes  glitters  and  he  stabs  his  ponderous  left  feint  for 
the  body,  at  the  same  time  drawin'  back  the  deadly 
right  so's  a  guy  sixteen  miles  from  the  clubhouse 
would  know  what  he  figured  on  doin'  with  it.  The 
boss  boxer  makes  a  play  at  droppin'  his  guard.  The 
boob  swings,  misses,  and  is  exceedin'ly  surprised  to 
find  his  own  right  eye  beginnin'  to  close  and  the  mob 
yellin'  for  his  immediate  extinction.  He  shakes  his 
head  doubtfully,  pulls  a  silly  grin,  and  tries  again,  with 
the  same  result.  Next  time  maybe  the  other  kid 
walks  into  the  right  swing,  lets  it  go  over  his  shoulder, 
and  shakes  the  tramp  from  stem  to  stern  with  half  a 
dozen  rights  and  lefts  to  his  wide-open  body  before 
the  disgusted  referee  pulls  'em  apart.  And  so  it  goes 
to  the  final  gong,  the  clever  guy  which  can't  hit  pilin* 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     139 

up  points  and  the  ham  with  the  man-killin'  wallop 
rippin'  the  air  with  useless  wallops  which  tire  him 
out  and  make  him  a  set-up,  because  he  ain't  got 
brains  enough  to  realize  his  attack  is  all  wrong  and 
needs  to  be  mixed  up  a  bit  to  get  results. 

The  toughest  job  a  pilot  of  box  fighters  has  is  to 
hammer  into  the  usual  mass  of  concrete  between  the 
neck  and  hair  of  his  meat  cards  the  importance  of 
watchin'  at  all  times  durin'  a  hard  bout  for  the  lucky 
break  which  means  a  win  for  the  guy  which  takes 
advantage  of  it.  It  may  be  a  little  incident  which  the 
crowd  never  sees.  For  the  example,  many's  the  guy 
I've  seen  knocked  cold  the  instant  he  reached  down 
mechanically  to  give  a  hitch  to  a  pair  of  slippin' 
tights.  The  other  baby  had  noticed  that  his  playfellow's 
trunks  was  loose  and  was  waitin'  till  he  reached 
down  to  grab  'em,  knowin'  that  for  maybe  a  eighth 
of  a  second  his  guard  would  be  lowered — and — well, 
a  eighth  of  a  second's  enough !  The  heavyweight 
championship  of  dear  old  England  once  depended  on 
a  thing  as  small  and  seemin'ly  as  unimportant  as  that. 
Pull  your  chairs  up  close,  and  I'll  just  about  kill  the 
next  half  hour  with  the  tale. 

About  two  months  after  we  have  knocked  Tiger 
Capato  dead  in  a  round — the  Tiger  bein'  supposedly 
the  last  hurdle  between  us  and  the  champ — me  and 
Kid  Roberts  is  convened  in  our  lair  at  the  hotel  in 
New  York  discussin'  the  fascinatin'  subject  of  box 
fightin'.  The  indications  was  that  the  champ's  movie 
contracts  would  keep  him  outside  the  ropes  for  the 
worst  part  of  a  year,  but  in  the  meanwhile  we  have 
got  to  eat  and  likewise  add  to  this  bank  roll  for  the 


140          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Kid's  busted  old  man.  Business  in  our  line  was  very 
dull  in  the  land  the  Marines  made  famous,  for  the 
reason  that  we  have  trimmed  all  the  good  heavies 
and  the  Kid  will  not  under  no  circumstances  frame 
a  scrap  or  fight  set-ups. 

"It's  more  than  eight  weeks  since  I  fought  Ca- 
pato,"  the  Kid  growls,  pacin'  up  and  down  the  room 
like  a  irritated  panther.  "In  that  time  we  haven't 
earned  a  penny,  and  I  haven't  drawn  on  a  glove. 
I'm  getting  stale  through  lack  of  work  and — " 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  says  soothin'ly.  "It's  your  own 
fault  we  can't  get  no  work.  If  you'd  of  saved  up 
some  of  them  boloneys  for  return  dates,  instead  of 
bouncin'  'em  all  in  a  couple  of  rounds,  we  could  go 
back  over  the  circuit  like  the  rest  of  'em  does  and 

clean  up  again.    Now,  the  only  way  we  can  get  a  fight 
» 

"Is  to  join  the  Polish  army,  I  suppose!"  butts  in 
the  Kid  bitterly.  "Well,  if—" 

"No!"  I  hollers,  jumpin'  up.  "Not  Poland,  but 
England !  France  and  England,  where  the  set-ups 
runs  wild  and  where  any  guy  which  gets  through  two 
fights  without  bein'  knocked  kickin'  is  made  cham 
pion  of  Europe  in  whatever  class  he's  in.  Why,  you'll 
be  a  riot  over  there,  Kid;  I  must  of  been  crazy  not 
to  of  thought  of  it  before!" 

"Well,  don't  talk  about  it ;  let's  go !"  snarls  the  Kid, 
nervously  reachin'  for  his  hat.  "I'm  going  out  and 
walk  off  some  of  this  depression,  and  incidentally 
I'll  find  out  about  passports  and  accommodations — it 
will  give  me  something  to  do.  This  infernal  inactivity 
is  driving  me  mad  and  it  must  be  damned  unpleasant 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     141 

for  you,  old  man,  to  have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  my 
beastly  temper." 

"That's  all  right,  son,"  I  grins,  pattin'  him  on  the 
back.  "All  real  fighters  is  temperamental,  whether 
they  work  with  their  head  or  their  hands.  By  the 
way,  speakin'  of  fightin'  and  the  etc.,  d'ye  know  our 
contract  run  out  last  week  and  that  right  now  they 
ain't  a  thing  holdin'  you  to  me  if  you  want  to  cut 
loose?  You're  no  fifty-dollar  preliminary  ham  any 
more,  Kid;  you're  the  next  world's  heavyweight 
champion,  with  a  possible  half  million  iron  men  ready 
to  fall  into  your  pockets  in  two  or  three  years.  Also, 
you  ain't  no  bone-headed  roughneck  which  don't 
know  what  it's  all  about;  you  got  a  college  education, 
a  business  head,  and  somethin'  I'll  never  have — class! 
If  it  come  to  it,  you  could  make  your  own  matches, 
look  after  your  own  affairs,  and  a  few  extry  pennies 
will  get  you  experienced  handlers  to  swing  a  towel 
in  your  corner  every  time  you  start.  All  this  would 
mean  a  savin'  to  you  of  half  your  earnin's — the  half 
I  get  now.  I  want  you  to  know  just  how  you  stand 
so's  you  can  make  your  own  choice,  Kid,  because  you — 
well,  you  been  different  than  any  guy  I  ever  handled: 
we  been  more  like  pals  than  manager  and  box  fighter 
— and  I  got  a  right  to  enjoy  the  sensations  of  bein' 
square  if  I  wanna." 

The  Kid  come  over  and  takin'  both  my  hands  in 
them  bone  crushers  of  his,  presented  me  with  a  full- 
toothed  smile. 

"As  long  as  I  remain  in  the  ring  I  want  you  to 
look  after  the  business  end  of  my  affairs,"  he  says. 


142  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"It  was  your  canny  matchmaking,  whole-hearted  en 
couragement  and  the  shrewd  advice  and  training 
you  gave  me  that  took  me  as  far  as  I  am  now !  It 
was  also  you  who  bullied  the  promoters  into  giving 
me  the  guarantees  I've  been  getting  and  got  my  price 
raised  from  two  hundred  a  bout  to  five  hundred  and 
more  a  round.  I'm  not  going  to  cast  you  aside  now, 
just  when  there's  a  chance  for  you  to  cash  in  on  your 
efforts.  No,  we'll  stick  together  until  the  finish  and 
keep  the  split  at  fifty-fifty,  old  man.  You're  earning 
your  share  as  much  as  I  earn  mine.  Why,  if  I 
couldn't  look  over  when  the  going  gets  rough  and  see 
you  in  my  corner,  I'd  be  as  helpless  as  a  rudderless 
ship !  As  you  say,  we've  been  pals — and  pals  don't 
break  over  money.  We  don't  need  a  contract.  I'm 
sure  our  friendship  is  stronger  than  any  legal  sheet 
of  paper.  Let's  continue  as  we  have  been  doing  on 
a — a — gentlemen's  agreement.  Does  that  hit  you  all 
right?" 

Did  it  hit  me  all  right?  I'll  ejaculate  it  did! 
Imagine  a  blue-corpuscled,  classy,  inlaid  in  the  de 
canter  aristocrat  like  him,  intimatin'  out  loud  that  I 
am  what  is  known  as  a  gentleman.  Sweet  Mamma, 
shou!4  he  of  gave  me  a  hundred  thousand  bucks  right 
then,  I  wouldn't  of  felt  no  better! 

Well,  about  ten  days  later  we  are  out  on  the  boundin' 
billows  on  the  en  route  to  King  George's  home  town, 
and  they  ain't  no  hospital  and  few  cemeteries  in  the 
world  containin'  a  guy  one-fifth  as  sick  as  me.  For 
three  days  I  was  a  object  which  would  of  aroused  pity 
in  the  chest  of  a  Bowery  loan  shark,  and  I  accumu 
lated  some  doubts  about  Columbus  discoverin'  America, 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     143 

on  the  account  I  don't  believe  anybody  every  stayed 
on  the  ocean  that  long.  With  the  Kid,  how  the  so  ever, 
it  was  all  different.  The  boy  had  sailed  a  mean  yacht 
and  the  etc.  when  his  masculine  parent  had  large 
quantities  of  sugar,  and  he  was  as  much  at  home  in 
the  cradle  of  the  deep  as  a  barnacle.  He  dragged 
me  out  of  the  cabin  where  I  had  crawled  to  die  in 
peace  and  made  me  gallop  around  the  deck,  till, 
much  to  my  dumfounded  astonishment,  I  was  able 
to  listen  to  the  dinner  bugle  without  goin'  into  con 
vulsions  as  heretofore. 

About  four  days  after  the  ship  has  been  caperin' 
wildly  hithers  and  yon  on  the  ocean,  and  I  have  de 
cided  they  is  more  heroes  in  the  navy  than  any  other 
place  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  a  ball  is  had  on  the 
heels  of  supper.  The  Kid  drags  out  his  "Curse  you, 
Jack  Dalton !"  scenery,  wraps  it  around  his  manly 
form,  and  won't  have  it  no  other  way  but  that  I  climb 
into  the  one  he  made  me  stake  myself  to  and  join  the 
merry  mob  on  the  promenade  deck.  As  a  dancer,  I'm 
a  fine  box-fight  manager !  I  don't  know  the  difference 
between  a  bar  of  music  and  a  bar  of  soap,  provided 
they  is  any,  and  after  I  have  sit  out  a  couple  of  one- 
steps  with  Janes  which  would  be  safe  anywheres  and 
which  talked  about  their  varied  operations  and  how 
many  times  they  had  been  across,  I  escaped  to  the 
smokin'  room  on  the  account  of  preferrin'  the  male 
liars  to  the  female  pests. 

But  Kid  Roberts  had  a  field  day  with  the  ladies 
as  per  usual.  This  big  blond  in  evenin'  clothes  was 
a  sight  which  would  of  made  Apollo  take  arsenic, 
and,  Sweet  Mamma,  how  the  women  did  set  sail  for 


144          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

him,  once  he  started  steppin'  out  on  that  ballroom 
floor!  Young,  old,  and  unhappy  mediums  in  between 
crowded  around  the  Kid,  vampin'  him  silly,  while 
their  boy  friends  and  bitter  halfs  let  forth  glowers 
of  rage. 

How  the  so  ever,  while  Kid  Roberts  had  a  fatal 
weakness  for  the  sex  made  famous  by  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  I  didn't  get  particularly  nervous  as  long  as  he 
played  no  favorites  but  kept  circulatin'  hithers  and 
yon  among  the  beautiful  girls,  some  of  which  was 
in  evenin'  gowns  which  would  of  wrung  a  gasp  from 
Annette  Kellermann. 

But,  alas  and  alackaday,  my  worst  fears  come  to 
a  head  when  along  around  the  shanks  of  the  evenin' 
a  couple  of  newcomers  appeared  on  the  scenes,  in 
the  shape  of  a  inclined-to-be  elderly  and  dignified 
gent  and  a  inclined-to-be  young  and  dazzlin*  girl. 
Aside  from  everything  else,  money  and  class  stuck 
out  all  over  'em.  Kid  Roberts  let  forth  a  gasp  and 
flashed  white  for  the  part  of  a  second  when  the  old 
boy  drawed  off  the  girl's  opera  cloak,  revealin'  some- 
thin'  in  the  feminine  line  which  would  of  mesmer 
ized  Adam  into  givin'  Eve  her  apple  back  untasted. 
Sweet  Papa,  what  a  knockout  she  was !  One  of  them 
little  de  luxe  editions  of  the  world's  greatest  mys 
tery  story,  viz.,  woman:  hair  a  bewilderin'  fluff  of 
polished  copper,  eyes  as  fascinatin'  as  a  month-old 
baby's  and  less  sophisticated,  a  complexion  which 
would  retail  for  about  ten  thousand  fish,  could  you 
get  it  in  a  can  and  a — eh — a  figure  which  would 
make  the  front  row  of  the  Ziegfeld  Follies  seem  like 
a  shapeless  mass.  I  figured  her  age  at  about  half  a 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     145 

hour  past  nineteen,  and  they  is  no  doubt  that  many's 
the  tall,  willowy  blonde  took  one  look  at  this  vest- 
pocket  size  heart  breaker  that  night  and  wished  she 
had  missed  the  boat ! 

The  Kid  was  down  for  the  count  after  the  first 
look,  and  the  luck  of  fools  and  lovers,  which  is  the 
same  thing,  was  with  him.  Over  comes  the  old  gent 
himself  whilst  this  second  Venus  is  dancin'  with  some 
bimbo  which  must  of  been  born  with  a  four-leafed 
clover  in  each  hand. 

"Pardon  me,"  remarks  the  apparent  father  of  the 
prettiest  girl  on  our  popular  planet,  whilst  he  pulls 
a  grin  which  tags  him  to  me  as  a  regular  guy.  "You're 
Kane  Halliday,  are  you  not?" 

The  Kid  looks  kind  of  flushed,  but  he  was  al 
ways  there  with  the  old  drawin'-room  stuff.  "I  am," 
he  admits,  with  a  well-placed  bow.  "But  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me,  I'm  afraid." 

"I  suppose  so,"  says  old  Father  William.  "It's 
some  years  since  I  last  saw  you,  and  then  you  were 
too  busy  to  stop  for  a  chat." 

He  puts  his  hand  on  the  Kid's  shoulder  and  throws 
that  grin  into  high. 

"You  were — ah — going  through  eleven  husky  young 
Harvard  cubs  with  a  pigskin  tucked  under  your  left 
arm !" 

The  Kid  blushes  like  a  bevy  of  schoolgirls,  but 
before  he  can  set  the  old  guy  goes  on:  "I'm  Sena 
tor  Brewster  of  New  York,  a  schoolmate  of  your 
dear  mother's — whom  you  greatly  resemble — and  an 
admirer  of  your  prowess  in  the  twenty-four-foot 
square.  I  saw  your  last  fight  with  Kennedy  and 


146  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

it  was  a  corker.  Halliday,  your  right  hook  to  the  jaw 
is  the  fastest  thing  I've  ever  seen  inside  of  a  glove 
and  I  haven't  missed  a  championship  bout  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years !" 

"You're  a  boxing  enthusiast,  then?"  inquires  the 
Kid  with  the  greatest  of  relief,  whilst  a  wanderin' 
eye  fixes  itself  on  the  girl  which  had  been  with  the 
old  boy. 

"Indeed,  I  am!"  says  our  elderly  tete-a-tete,  with 
a  touch  of  gusto.  "Much  to  the  annoyance  of  Dolores 
— my  daughter — whose  feminine  curiosity  led  her 
to  witness  one  prize  fight  with  me  and  who,  I  am 
sure,  will  never  see  another !  Not  understanding  the — 
eh — fine  points  of  the  game,  she  thought  it  merely  a 
brutal  and  disgusting  exhibition — to  quote  her  ver 
batim.  I've  been  boxing  with  an  instructor  at  my  club 
in  Washington  for  nearly  a  year,  and  I  feel  like  a 
boy  of  twenty.  I  don't  know  what  a  doctor  looks 
like,  and  I'm  eating  and  sleeping  like  a  Hoosier  farm 
hand!  If  you  intend  doing  any  training  to  keep  in 
condition  on  the  trip  across,  Halliday,  I'd  be  delighted 
to  come  down  to  the  very  excellent  gymnasium  they 
have  on  the  lower  deck  and — ah — limber  up  a  bit 
with  you." 

The  Kid  smiles  down  at  this  good  old  sport,  which, 
for  all  his  white  hair  and  wrinkled  face,  looked  the 
photograph  of  health  and  likewise  able  to  give  a  good 
account  of  himself,  fisticuffally  speakin'  should  the  oc 
casion  ever  come  up. 

"I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you,  senator,"  says  Kid 
Roberts,  and  then,  realizin'  that  him  and  the  sen. 
is  far  from  alone,  he  introduces  me  with  not  a  little 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     147 

zest.  The  president  baiter  seemed  tickled  silly  to  be 
hangin'  out  with  the  famous  Kid  Roberts  and  his 
equally  likable  manager,  and  I  was  beaucoup  glad 
that  I'd  had  brains  enough  to  be  caparisoned  in  a  dress 
suit,  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  gay  young  life  I 
ever  give  a  U.  S.  or  an  any  other  senator  the  pleasure 
of  shakin'  hands  with  me. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  my  daughter,"  says  the  gentle 
man  from  New  York,  and  the  Kid's  eyes  takes  on  a 
glint  which  might  of  caused  the  senator  to  reconsider 
his  proposition,  if  he  had  noticed  it. 

The  Kid  smiles  and  then  immediately  gets  serious. 
"Perhaps,"  he  says  quietly,  "perhaps  Miss  Brewster 
would  not  care  to  be  introduced  to  a — a — prize  fighter, 
in  view  of  her  dislike  of  boxing." 

"Eh — ahem,"  says  the  senator,  linking  his  arm 
in  the  Kid's, — "I — ah — Halliday,  whatever  you  may 
be  doing  now  and  for  whatever  reason,  you  are 
a  gentleman  born.  You  forgot  I  reminded  you  that 
your  mother  and  I  were  schoolmates.  For  a  heavy 
weight  boxer  you  are  singularly  free  from  the  usual 
marks  of  your  profession  and  —  ah  —  it  might  be 
as  well  not  to  mention  your — ah — calling  to  Dolores 
just  now.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  can  find  many  other 
interesting  subjects  to  discuss." 

The  Kid  bowed,  but  they  was  a  queer  look  on  his 
face,  and  the  next  thing  I  know  we  are  havin'  another 
orgy  of  introductions,  and  then  Dolores  Brewster 
and  the  Kid  is  slidin'  over  the  polished  floor  and  me 
and  Senator  Brewster  is  out  in  the  smokin'  room 
talkin'  box  fightin'  and  drinkin'  none  of  your  business ! 


148          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Well,  from  that  minute  till  we  fin'ly  reached  the 
bustlin'  village  of  Liverpool,  Kid  Roberts  hung  around 
Dolores  Brewster  like  she  was  a  glass  bowl  and  he 
was  a  gold  fish.  They  danced,  eat,  walked,  talked, 
bridge- whisted,  ouija-boarded,  and  whatnot  together 
till  they  was  the  talk  of  the  ship. 

When  the  Irish  coast  looms  up  on  the  horizon  the 
Kid  bounces  into  our  cabin  at  the  witchin'  hours  of 
midnight  and  without  no  preliminaries  knocks  me 
for  a  goal  by  announcin'  he's  gonna  wed  Dolores 
Brewster  at  his  earliest  possible  convenience.  This 
was  about  the  eighteenth  romantical  affair  de  heart 
which  had  occurred  to  the  Kid  since  he  come  under 
my  wings  and  about  the  first  one  to  show  the  ear 
marks  of  bein'  annoyin'ly  serious  on  the  part  of  both 
sides.  I  spent  somthin'  like  two  hours  beggin', 
threatening  pleadin',  and  arguin'  with  Kid  Roberts 
against  allowin'  himself  to  be  dragged  to  a  altar  be 
fore  he  had  became  heavyweight  champ  of  the  entire 
world.  He  sit  on  the  side  of  his  berth  with  a  far 
away  and  long-ago  look  on  his  face  and  a  shoe  in  his 
hand,  and  when  I  get  all  through  on  the  account  I  got 
to  get  my  breath,  he  let  forth  a  sigh  and  remarks  to 
a  near-by  porthole : 

"And  to  think — to  think  we're  going  to  be  mar 
ried  as  soon  as  we  reach  London !" 

Sweet  Mamma,  a  guy  in  love  is  tough  to  take ! 

How  the  so  ever,  I'm  still  hopin'  that  somethin' 
untoward  will  come  to  the  pass  as  of  yore  before  this 
love's  young  dream  can  turn  into  a  nightmare  for 
me.  My  wildest  hopes  was  realized  the  night  we 
anchored  in  a  river  which  the  English  has  nicknamed 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     149 

the  Mersey.  The  Kid  and  his  charmer  is  givin'  the 
dark  deck  and  moonlight  thing  a  heavy  play  folleyin' 
the  customary  dancin'  and  by  dumb's  luck  I  happen 
to  almost  stumble  over  'em  whilst  I'm  taking  a  slight 
promenade.  I  have  never  listened  at  no  keyholes 
or  the  like  in  my  life,  as  I  am  not  that  type  of  guy, 
but  I  could  not  prevent  myself  hear  in'  Miss  Dolores 
Brewster  tell  the  Kid  that  unless  he  give  up  the  prize 
ring  at  once  and  immediately,  all  bets  was  off.  He 
was  a  nice,  bright,  handsome,  and  ambitious  kid,  but 
she  wanted  no  leather  pushers  in  hers,  and  that  was 
that! 

I  leave  it  to  you  how  I  waited  and  hung  on  the 
Kid's  answer.  They  was  no  question  but  that  he  was 
head  over  heels  as  far  as  Dolores  was  concerned  and 
everybody  in  the  world  knows  that  a  guy  which  has 
fell  a  victim  to  love's  sweet  charms  ain't  got  the  brains 
of  a  gnat  left  in  his  head.  The  heavyweight  title  and 
all  the  sugar  which  went  with  it  was  loomin'  in  the 
offin'  and  if  Kid  Roberts  threw  away  his  gloves  now — 
Woof,  just  thinkin'  about  it  got  me  on  the  brink  of 
the  hysterics! 

"My  dear,"  he  says,  "what  you  ask  is  impossible. 
I  have  gone  too  far  to  turn  back  now.  The  atmos 
phere  of  the  prize  ring  is  almost  as  obnoxious  to  me 
as  it  is  to  you,  but  until  I  have  earned  enough  money 
to  rehabilitate  my  father  and  myself  I  must  go  on. 
Also,  you  seem  to  forget  that  if  we  are  to  be" — the 
boy's  voice  shook  a  bit,  and  he  leaned  closer  if  that 
was  possible — "if  we  are  to  be  married,  I  must  have 
enough  money  to  insure  your — " 


150          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"Father  has  more  money  than  he  knows  what  to 
do  with,"  she  butts  in,  layin'  a  vampish  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"He  is  very  fortunate,"  remarks  the  Kid  kinda 
chilly,  as  he  straightened  up.  "But  your  father's 
money  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  me.  No,  dear, 
if  this  were  a  book  or  a  moving  picture,  I  would 
probably  renounce  my  present  profession  in  a  highly 
melodramatic  manner,  and  then  it  would  be  discov 
ered  that  I  am  really  the  heir  to  the  throne  of  Alluvia, 
or  something  like  that,  in  disguise.  But  being  sordid 
reality,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  play  my  hand  out  to 
the  finish.  There  is  too  much  at  stake  for  me  to  give 
up  now!" 

Dolores  played  her  ace.  She  give  vent  to  a  sigh  and 
presented  the  Kid  with  a  glance,  which  if  it  made  me 
dizzy,  what  do  you  figure  it  must  of  done  to  him? 

"Even  for  me  ?"  she  murmurs. 

"Even  for  you!"  answers  the  Kid,  hoarse  but  firm. 

Dolores  Brewster  gathered  up  her  cloak  and  drifted 
into  the  cabin  without  as  much  as  a  glance  or  a  answer 
to  the  Kid's  dazed  exclamation. 

So  that  was  all  settled! 

Three  weeks  after  the  above  came  to  the  pass,  me 
and  Kid  Roberts  is  located  at  Hampstead  Heath,  a 
burg  on  the  hoopskirts  of  dear  old  London,  trainin' 
for  a  scheduled  twenty-round  muss  with  Bandsman 
Shayne,  heavyweight  assault  and  battery  champion  of 
the  United  (ha,  ha!)  Kingdom  of  Ireland  and  Great 
Britain. 

I  signed  articles   for  the  entertainment  whilst  the 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     151 

Kid  was  scourin'  Blighty  with  a  vacuum  cleaner  in  a 
effort  to  find  Dolores  Brewster.  Bandsman  Shayne 
was  likewise  among  those  absent  at  the  signin'  of  the 
articles,  the  pugilistic  pride  of  England  bein'  tourin' 
the  outlands  as  a  vaudeville  attraction.  So  the  young 
men  didn't  meet  when  us  managers  convened  at  the 
National  Sportin'  Club  and,  over  a  couple  of  seidels 
of  the  stuff  the  Anti-Saloon  League  made  famous,  ac 
cepted  a  purse  of  four  thousand  pounds  for  the  mas 
sacre,  to  be  split  60  per  cent  to  the  winner  and  40 
per  cent  to  the  guy  they  carried  out.  Bandsman 
Shayne's  manager  was  a  tall,  slim,  walrus-whiskered 
baby  which  packed  a  shifty  eye  and  mixed  a  mean 
highball.  He  looked,  talked,  and  acted  like  the  unde 
feated  champion  boob  of  the  world,  and  that's  what 
I  figured  him.  Oo  la,  la,  what  a  awakenin'  I  got! 

Well,  the  Kid  took  to  his  trainin'  like  Mary  Pick- 
ford  took  to  a  camera  and  within  a  week  I  was  prac 
tically  out  of  sparrin'  partners.  Cut  to  the  quick  by 
the  charmin'  Miss  Brewster  havin'  gave  him  the  rasp 
berry,  he  went  around  snarlin'  and  growlin'  like  a 
peeved  bear,  and  he  seemed  to  get  a  lot  of  relief  by 
batterin'  his  handlers  from  pillar  to  post. 

I  found  handlers  as  scarce  in  and  around  Hamp- 
stead  Heath  as  silence  is  in  a  locomotive  works,  and 
when  about  ten  days  before  the  fight  a  big  husky 
strolls  into  our  camp  and  asks  for  a  job  I  could  of 
kissed  him,  and  for  all  I  know  I  did !  This  boy  was 
one  tough-lookin'  baby  and  he  had  "I-can-take-it!" 
wrote  all  over  him.  He  was  a  good  fifteen  pounds 
heavier  than  my  195  ringside  Kid  Roberts  and  fully 


152  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

as  tall,  and  before  he  ever  raised  a  glove  I  knowed 
he  had  been  to  the  races  many's  the  time  before,  by  the 
way  he  climbed  through  the  ropes  of  the  trainin'  ring. 
He  claimed  he  was  entitled  Gunner  Enright  and  was 
due  to  go  to  the  post  himself  in  a  couple  of  weeks. 
He  says  likewise  that  he  wants  experience  more  than 
anything  else  and  would  give  the  Kid  all  the  limberin' 
up  he  could  stand  for  two  pounds  a  week  and  board. 

Gunner  Enright  had  been  in  our  midst  just  one 
hour,  English  time,  when  I  was  fallin'  over  my  own 
feet  makin'  him  propositions  to  come  back  to  the  U.  S. 
under  my  management,  for  I  seen  that  this  bimbo 
could  knock  two-thirds  of  our  second-rate  heavies 
for  a  row  of  refuse  containers.  Kid  Roberts  was  as 
happy  as  a  bride  winnin'  her  first  argument  and 
promised  this  guy  a  bonus  if  he  trimmed  the  Engish 
title  holder,  because  the  Gunner  was  givin'  him  the 
first  real  workouts  he'd  had  since  we  hit  the  old 
country.  He  was  fast,  he  was  clever,  he  could  hit, 
and  he  could  take  it,  and  that's  all  even  the  A.  E.  F. 
could  do,  hey? 

Gunner  Enright  told  me  he'd  think  over  my  propo 
sition  to  come  back  with  us  to  the  formerly  Land  of 
the  Spree,  and  when  I  asked  him  was  this  Bands 
man  Shayne  a  false  alarm  or  a  bcaucoup  puncher,  the 
Gunner  curls  his  wolf's  lip  and  pans  the  English 
champ  for  half  a  hour.  He  claims  the  box-fightin' 
musician  is  as  yellah  as  the  Chinese  flag,  has  ducked 
either  twelve  or  eighty-six  chances  to  meet  him,  and 
that  Kid  Roberts  should  put  him  away  with  three 
or  four  clouts  at  the  utmost. 

A  few  days  before  the  large  clash  the  Kid  draws 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     153 

me  aside  whilst  waitin'  for  the  Gunner  to  get  into 
his  trainin'  togs,  and  they's  a  queer  smile  on  his  face. 

"This  Enright  would  be  a  sensation  in  America  if 
he  was  properly  matched,"  he  says.  "No  man  I  have 
fought  has  given  me  a  stiffer  argument  than  he  does 
when  he  gets  warmed  up  to  his  work.  He's  a  terrific 
body  puncher  and  can  also  take  his  gruel  without 
flinching — if  you've  noticed,  he's  scarcely  taken  a 
backward  step  in  all  the  workouts  we've  had  together. 
I  have  the  firm  conviction  that  this  fellow  has  never 
really  cut  loose  yet.  He  gives  me  the  impression  many 
times  that  he's  holding  back  his  returns.  Tell  him 
to-day  to  let  me  have  everything  he  has  in  stock.  If  I 
can't  handle  a  sparring  partner,  I've  got  no  business 
in  the  same  ring  with  a  champion,  and  the  sooner  I 
find  it  out  the  better!" 

I  grinned  and  glanced  toward  Gunner  Enright,  which 
was  comin'  over  with  the  gloves. 

'"As  usual  before  every  big  scrap  you  got  a  attack 
of  nerves,"  I  say.  "I'll  tell  this  cuckoo  to  give  you 
the  works,  and  then  I  want  you  to  knock  him  out — 
just  so's  he  won't  kid  himself  that  he  could  take  you 
if  he  wanted  to." 

The  Kid  shakes  his  head.  "I'm  not  going  to  punish 
any  sparring  partner  unnecessarily,"  he  says.  "I'm 
getting  plenty  of  work  letting  them  come  to  me  and 
simply  standing  them  off.  You've  seen  that  I  always 
let  them  clinch  and  recover  when  I  forget  myself  and 
sting  them  a  bit.  I've  been  a  little  more  strenuous 
with  this  man  than  with  the  others,  only  because  he 
can  assimilate  punishment  and  seems  to  fight  better 


154  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

when  he's  shaken  up.  Tell  him  to  try  and  knock  me 
out — I  want  to  see  what  he's  concealing." 

They  boxed  three  two-minute  rounds,  goin'  at  it 
hammer  and  tongs,  and  they  was  a  lot  more  action  in 
this  thing  than  in  many's  the  real  mill  I've  looked  at. 
Gunner  Enright  took  me  at  my  word,  and  if  he  didn't 
endeavor  to  knock  my  comin'  champ  for  a  goal,  then 
Grant  didn't  care  whether  he  win  the  Civil  War  or  not ! 
The  Gunner  was  gettin'  a  trifle  too  fast  for  me,  and 
had  opened  up  a  old  gash  over  the  Kid's  left  eye  which 
bled  rather  lavishly,  when  I  called  a  halt.  Right  before 
I  bawled  "Time !"  he  staggered  Roberts  with  a  beauti 
ful  right  to  the  head,  and  the  Kid,  thoroughly  enjoy  in' 
himself,  come  back  with  two  lefts  to  the  jaw  that 
dropped  the  enthusiastic  Gunner  to  his  knees.  That 
was  ample  for  me,  and  I  stopped  the  show.  Much 
to  my  amazement,  the  Gunner  apparently  lost  his  head 
and  insisted  on  continuin'  the  quarrel.  He  begin  by 
pleadin'  and  wound  up  by  gettin'  nasty.  When  he  hol 
lered  that  he  could  "Bash  the  bleedin'  Yank's  fyce 
in!"  meanin'  the  highly  amused  Kid,  I  paid  him  off 
and,  with  the  kindly  assistance  of  a  couple  of  volun 
teers,  throwed  him  out  of  the  camp. 

The  night  of  the  Kid  Roberts-Bandsman  Shayne 
fracas  they  closed  all  doors  of  the  National  Sportin' 
Club  at  half  past  eight.  The  main  event  wasn't  due  to 
get  under  way  till  ten,  but  the  galleries  and  other  seats 
for  the  middle  clawsses  and  the  etc.  each  contained  two 
guys  a  few  minutes  after  the  entrances  opened  at  seven. 
This  Shayne  person  had  a  followin'  which  can  only 
be  compared  to  the  one  Roosevelt  had  and  they  was  all 
there  to  see  their  man  give  the  American  leather 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     155 

pusher  the  trimmin'  of  his  young  life.  The  English 
sports  figured  the  bout  would  be  a  spread  for  their 
champ,  and  before  my  exactin'  duties  called  me  to 
the  dressin'  room,  I  had  got  down  five  thousand  fish 
on  the  possibilities  of  the  Kid's  right  hook  to  the  jaw 
at  2y2  to  1. 

The  weights  was  announced  as :  Kid  Roberts,  \96y2  ; 
Bandsman  Shayne,  214. 

Bandsman  Shayne  was  already  in  his  corner  when 
we  come  to  the  party,  as  I  had  purposely  made  him 
wait  for  us  to  see  what  it  would  do  to  his  nerves.  I 
was  very  anxious  for  my  first  flash  at  him,  and  so  was 
the  Kid,  but  he  had  so  many  handlers  and  the  like 
flittin'  around  him  that  it  was  the  same  as  impossible 
to  view  him.  Fin'ly  the  referee  called  us  to  the  center 
of  the  ring  for  final  instructions,  and  Bandsman 
Shayne  stepped  forward,  facin'  the  Kid. 

Roberts  gave  vent  to  a  gasp  which  could  of  been 
and  no  doubt  was  heard  in  Shantung,  and,  Sweet 
Papa — I  liked  to  fell  through  the  ropes ! 

Bandsman  Shayne  was  no  less  than  our  old  pal  and 
formerly  chore  boy,  "Gunner  Enright!" 

I  don't  know  whether  that  referee  told  us  we  was  al 
lowed  to  kick  and  bite  in  the  clinches  and  that  knives 
would  be  furnished  after  the  first  round  or  not.  I 
never  heard  a  word  he  said,  for  I  was  gettin'  set  to 
clip  Bandsman  Shayne's  grinnin'  manager  on  the  but 
ton,  when  the  white-faced  Kid  Roberts  shoved  me 
away.  The  referee  raised  his  eyebrows  and  coldly 
motioned  me  to  our  corner,  where  I  slumped  up  against 
the  ropes  in  a  trance.  Think  what  that  English — ah 


156          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

— ah — cuckoo  had  pulled  on  us !  Knowin'  we'd  never 
seen  the  Bandsman,  he  sends  his  man  up  to  train  for 
this  championship  battle  with  the  very  man  he's  gonna 
fight!  A  instant's  thought  will  show  the  dummest 
bimbo  in  captivity  the  priceless  advantages  Bandsman 
Shayne  win  for  himself  by  this  raw  trick.  He's 
worked  out  every  day  with  the  guy  he's  gonna  face  in 
the  ring  for  the  real  muss.  He's  apparently  learned 
every  punch,  every  trick,  and  every  weakness  of  his 
comin'  versus,  whilst  at  the  same  time,  by  skillful 
fakin'  of  his  own  work,  he's  gave  away  no  information 
of  value  on  himself.  He's  givin'  us  about  two  minutes 
to  shift  our  carefully  rehearsed  and  long-planned 
scheme  of  battle  and  he's  grabbed  off  a  powerful  asset 
in  the  moral  blow  this  last-minute  discovery  handed 
the  Kid,  which  walked  slowly  back  to  his  corner 
waitin'  the  openin'  gong,  every  muscle  doin'  a  dance,  his 
teeth  fastened  in  his  lower  lip  and  his  face  whiter  than 
eight  dollars'  worth  of  cream.  They  wasn't  a  dozen 
guys  around  that  ring  which  after  one  searchin'  glance 
wouldn't  of  bet  fifty  to  one  Kid  Roberts  didn't  last  a 
round  with  the  laughin',  jokin',  and  supremely  confident 
Bandsman  Shayne.  Before  I  could  rouse  myself  and 
make  a  last  desperate  protest  to  have  the  mill  called 
off,  the  old  cowbell  rung  out. 

They  hadn't  exchanged  three  wallops  before  I  seen 
we  was  in  for  a  rough  evenin',  if  not  for  crushing  de 
feat  !  This  Bandsman  Shayne  was  a  fighter  and  the 
Kid  was  wilder  than  a  Borneo  circus  attraction.  In 
his  desire  to  end  matters  at  once,  Roberts  missed  a 
half  dozen  leads,  and  the  smilin'  Bandsman  peppered 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     157 

him  at  short  range  with  rights  and  lefts  to  the  body 
that  had  the  Kid  floimderin'  about  the  ring,  punch 
drunk  and  weary  before  the  openin'  frame  was  half 
over.  I  don't  think  Kid  Roberts  landed  four  clean 
wallops  durin'  the  entire  session.  He  simply  got  off 
on  the  wrong  foot  and  couldn't  set  himself  thereafter. 
Comin'  out  of  a  clinch,  the  Bandsman  deliberately 
butted  my  boy  with  his  head,  layin'  his  right  cheek 
open  and  drenchin'  him  scarlet.  The  referee  politely 
warned  the  Englishman  in  response  to  my  frantic 
yells  of  "Foul !"  and,  a  few  seconds  ahead  of  the 
gong,  Shayne  connected  with  a  long  overhand  right 
to  the  jaw  that  sprawled  the  Kid  on  his  face  in  a  neu 
tral  corner.  He  was  on  one  knee,  shakin'  his  head  to 
clear  it  and  gazin'  at  me  for  advice,  when  the  referee 
had  counted  "eight"  and  the  welcome  bell  rung. 

They  is  a  mild  clappin'  of  hands  around  the  ring 
side  and  some  real  old-fashioned  yells  from  the  gal 
leries  whilst  we're  hustlin'  the  Kid  to  his  corner  and 
workin'  over  him.  I  guess  to  everybody  but  me  he 
looked  a  beaten  man!  His  left  eye  was  completely 
closed,  his  lips  puffed  and  swollen,  and  the  gash  in 
his  right  cheek  took  five  stitches  to  close.  But  his  wind 
was  still  perfect,  a  cold  vicious  grin  had  took  the  place 
of  the  nervous  twitchin'  of  his  mouth,  and  as  he  shook 
the  water  I  doused  him  with  from  his  blond  hair  he 
grunted :  '"This  fellow  can  hit,  but  I'll  get  him  in  the 
next  round!" 

Round  two  opened  with  the  Kid  dancin'  lightly 
around  the  confident  Bandsman  and  suddenly  hookin' 
his  right  to  the  head  and  smashin'  his  left  to  the  body. 
The  Englishman  looked  surprised  and  backed  to  the 


158          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

ropes  cautiously,  showin'  a  beautiful  defense  for  the 
Kid's  determined  efforts  to  hook  his  right  to  the  jaw. 
They  fiddled  around  for  a  minute,  each  tryin'  to  con 
nect  with  one  solid  smash  that  would  finish  it,  and 
then  Shayne  worked  close,  leanin'  his  entire  weight 
on  the  Kid  so's  to  get  the  full  advantage  of  that  extry 
seventeen  pounds  weight.  In  response  to  my  frenzied 
yells  which  caused  amazed  stares  from  the  ringsiders, 
Roberts  fought  himself  free  and  drove  Shayne  to  the 
ropes  with  a  hurricane  of  rights  and  lefts  to  the  head 
and  face.  A  left  swing  buried  the  Kid's  glove  to  the 
wrist  in  the  Bandsman's  short  ribs  and  gaspin',  the 
champ  begin  to  wilt.  Roberts  feinted  swiftly  with  the 
same  left  and  then  crossed  his  right  to  the  mouth, 
bringin'  a  stream  of  crimson  as  the  Bandsman  begin 
to  tin-can  desperately  around  the  ring.  Pinned  in  his 
own  corner,  the  English  mauler  showed  he  was  a  ring 
general  by  pretendin'  to  be  dazed  and  groggy  and 
slumpin'  back  against  the  ropes.  The  Kid  fell  for  it, 
and,  as  he  sprang  in  to  finish  him,  Shayne  suddenly 
straightened  up  and  drove  Roberts  back  on  his  heels 
with  a  perfectly  timed  right  hook,  followin'  that  with 
four  stingin'  jabs  to  the  mouth  with  his  left  before 
the  astonished  Kid  could  set.  It  looked  like  anybody's 
fight,  and  they  was  toe  to  toe  exchangin'  wallops  at 
the  bell. 

The  second  the  Kid  is  on  his  stool  I  am  yellin'  into 
his  ear :  "'What's  that  guy  suckin'  his  lips  in  for,  d'ye 
know  ?  I  been  watchin'  him  all  through  this  round  and 
he  keeps  puckerin'  up  like  he  had  somethin'  in  his 
mouth.  What  is  it?" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     159 

The  Kid  glanced  up,  kinda  puzzled.  "I — why — I 
don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  says.  "Unless — well,  the 
first  punch  I  landed  in  this  round  caught  him  square 
on  the  open  mouth.  It  may  be  that  I  loosened  one  of 
his  teeth  and  he's  drawing  on  it  to  get  it  loose  enough 
to—" 

"To  get  rid  of  it,  to  get  rid  of  it !"  I  hollers.  "Just 
what  I  had  doped  out !  Now  listen  to  every  word  I'm 
gonna  say,  because  it  means  a  quick  knockout  if  you 
folley  my  instructions.  Pay  no  attention  to  any  part 
of  this  tramp  but  his  mouth!  That  tooth's  gettin' 
looser  and  looser  and  pretty  soon  it'll  come  all  the 
ways  out  and — get  this  now — he'll  turn  his  face  for 
a  second  to  spit  it  out !  Get  that  ?  He'll  have  to  turn 
his  face  to  one  side;  it's  a  natural  movement.  You 
keep  watchin'  him  suck  away  on  that  tooth.  When  he 
turns  his  face  to  get  rid  of  it,  be  set  to  let  him  have 
the  right  on  the  button.  It's  a  fifty  to  one  shot,  but 
if  you  connect,  you're  heavyweight  champion  of  Eng 
land  !" 

The  Kid's  eyes  flashed  and  he  reached  a  glove  for 
my  hand  and  shook  it  silently,  but  hard  enough  to 
make  it  ache  for  a  week.  Then  the  bell  brought  him 
off  his  stool  to  the  center  of  the  ring,  where  Bands 
man  Shayne  begin  peckin'  away  at  his  sore  eye  with  the 
flashiest  left  I've  seen  since  Jack  Johnson's.  The  Kid 
snapped  over  a  wallop  now  and  then,  but  his  one  good 
eye  was  glued  to  the  Bandsman's  puckerin'  lips,  and 
his  deadly  right,  flickin'  back  and  forth,  was  ready 
for  immediate  use.  Suddenly  they  both  started  a  rally 
at  the  same  time  in  mid  ring,  and  after  Roberts  had 
drove  Shayne's  head  back  six  times  without  a  return 


160  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

with  right  and  left  hooks,  the  Englishman  had  enough 
and  dove  into  a  clinch.  They  wrestled  all  over  the 
ring,  crashed  into  the  ropes  and  slid  along  'em,  the 
Bandsman  hangin'  on  for  his  life  and  the  arm- weary 
Kid  desperately  tryin'  to  wriggle  free.  The  referee 
tore  'em  apart  in  our  corner,  and  the  Kid  swiftly 
stuck  his  left  in  Shayne's  face.  The  English  champ 
shook  his  head,  worked  his  lips  for  a  instant,  and  then 
twisted  his  neck  slightly  as  he  spat  out  the  tooth.  The 
Kid's  right  had  started  with  the  workin'  of  the  lips 
and  it  connected  just  as  Shayne's  jaw  was  swingin' 
back,  addin'  double  force  to  the  blow  which  lifted  the 
Bandsman  a  good  three  inches  off  the  floor,  turned 
him  half  around,  and  brought  him  to  the  mat  with  a 
crash  that  shook  the  buildin',  the  first  part  to  touch  the 
canvas  bein'  his  shoulder  blades. 

The  referee  could  of  counted  a  billion.  At  "ten" 
the  body  had  scarcely  settled.  So  that  was  that! 

A  half  hour  later  we're  comin'  out  of  the  dressin' 
room  when  a  silk-hatted,  evenin'-dressed,  and  familiar- 
lookin'  gent  busts  into  us.  A  close  inspection  reveals 
that  it  is  no  less  than  our  old  shipmate,  Senator  Brews- 
ter.  He  grabs  the  Kid,  hugs  him,  waves  a  American 
flag,  hugs  me,  jabs  another  flag  into  my  coat  lapel, 
and  in  a  hoarse  voice  which  he  claims  he  contracted 
durin'  the  first  round,  tells  Kid  Roberts  he  has  saved 
his  country's  honor,  E  Pluribus  Unum  and  Nux 
Vomica,  and  that  he  personally  can  lick  Bandsman 
Shayne,  all  his  handlers,  and  the  referee ! 

"But  come  on!"  he  winds  up  out  of  breath.  "I 
have  a  car  waiting  outside,  and  we'll  all  go  over  to 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     161 

my  hotel  and — why,  say,  Dolores  won't  be  able  to  speak 
above  a  whisper  for  a  week !  She — " 

We're  out  on  the  street  by  this  time,  and  the  excited 
Sen.  Brewster  is  shovin'  a  path  through  the  half -crazy 
Americans  to  a  big  tourin'  car  which  contains  one  ter 
rible  pretty  girl,  answerin'  to  the  name  of  Dolores 
Brewster,  in  the  rear  seat.  She  puts  everything  she 
has  on  a  smile,  presents  it  to  the  dum founded  Kid. 

"Dolores !"  he  whispers,  turnin'  to  the  old  man. 
"Why — what — how — did — what  is  she  doing  here? 
You  never  brought  her  to  see — " 

"She  gave  me  no  peace  until  I  did  !"  grins  the  happy 
old  gent.  "She  insisted  upon  seeing  you  annihilate 
the  English  champion,  and,  why,  in  the  second  round 
she—" 

'"My  God  !"  breathes  the  Kid,  lookin'  at  her.  "You 
saw  that  bestial  exhibition?" 

"I  most  certainly  did,  Kane,"  smiles  Dolores,  with 
the  greatest  of  enthusiasm.  "I'm  so  glad  you  won,  but 
of  course  father  and  I  knew  you  would.  Why,  we 
were  sitting  only  a  few  yards  from  the — ah,  ring,  isn't 
it? — and  father  won  some  huge  sum  on  you,  and  I 
didn't  think  it  was  brutal  at  all!  Who  and  where  do 
you  fight  to-morrow  night,  dear  ?" 

To-morrow  night.     Sweet  Papa,  tie  that! 


ROUND  SEVEN 
YOUNG  KING  COLE 

GRAY  matter  pays  as  big  dividends  in  the  prize  ring 
as  it  does  in  any  other  game,  and  many's  the  battle- 
scarred  old  veteran  is  in  there  now  takin'  on  the  top- 
notchers  for  big  guarantees  and  stallin'  off  these  hard- 
hittin'  but  slow-thinkin'  young  bruisers  by  simply 
outguessin'  'em,  just  as  Christy  Mathewson  pitched 
winnin'  ball  long  after  he  was  past  his  prime  by  usin' 
his  head  as  somethin'  more  than  a  convenient  place  to 
hang  his  cap.  It's  a  real  treat  to  watch  the  master 
ring  artist  (not  the  knock-'em-dead  slugger)  at  work. 
Fast  as  wireless,  cool  as  a  January  breeze,  merciless 
as  a  famished  tiger,  he  can  do  with  a  pair  of  four- 
ounce  gloves  what  the  average  guy  might  accomplish 
with  a  baseball  bat  and  a  ax.  He  goes  around  his  man 
like  a  cooper  around  a  barrel,  makin'  him  dizzy  with 
lightin'  feints  and  slashin'  him  to  ribbons  with  jabs  that 
cut  and  sting  like  the  flick  of  a  bull  whip  in  the  hands 
of  a  master  mule  skinner. 

The  razzin'  of  the  mob  which  resents  his  cleverness 
and  craves  blood  and  knockdowns  worries  him  the 
same  way  they  worry  in  Hades  over  the  price  of  foot 
warmers.  He's  there  for  business,  and  from  his  ex 
pression  you'd  think  him  and  the  guy  he's  swappin' 

162 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     163 

wallops  with  was  the  only  two  guys  in  the  world,  let 
alone  in  the  clubhouse. 

Does  the  tramp  rock  him  with  a  chance  smash,  and 
he  curls  a  contemptuous  lip  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
yowlin'  pack  whilst  he  clinches  to  steady  himself,  then 
pushes  this  boloney  away  and,  with  a  couple  of  vicious 
jolts,  makes  him  back-pedal  nervously,  wilt,  and  cover 
up.  He  never  gets  excited,  never  gets  mad  enough  to 
miss,  never  stops  studyin'  his  man's  weaknesses  till  the 
quarrel's  over.  Floored,  he  don't  lose  his  head  and 
bounce  up  before  the  referee  can  begin  the  arithmetic 
lesson,  like  the  tramp  does  when  he  can  in  fear  of  the 
mob's  roar  of  "Yellah!"  Instead,  he  takes  a  long  count 
— it  uses  up  precious  time  and  gives  him  a  chance  to 
think,  and  when  he  does  get  up,  unless  he's  out  on  his 
his  feet,  the  other  guy  is  due  for  a  lively  couple  of 
minutes,  if  not  for  a  knockout ! 

From  the  instant  this  baby  steps  out  at  the  openin' 
clang  of  the  old  cowbell,  he's  a  student  and  a  finished 
workman.  He's  generally  got  some  plan  of  battle  all 
doped  in  advance,  but  if  that  don't  give  him  immediate 
results  he  shifts  to  another  and  another  with  a  speed 
and  skill  that  gives  the  real  lover  of  boxin'  more  genuine 
thrills  than  a  dozen  knockdowns.  He  finds  out  whether 
the  other  guy  don't  like  it  in  the  jaw  or  body,  and  works 
accordin'ly.  He  discovers  whether  his  little  playmate 
wilts  under  rough  handlin'  in  the  clinches  or  if  rushin' 
him  to  the  ropes  and  pinnin'  him  there  makes  him  wild 
with  his  returns.  He  tries  talkin'  to  him,  shakin'  a 
wicked  tongue  in  a  effort  to  stir  the  other  guy  into  a 
crazy  rage  which  will  make  him  throw  caution  to  the 
breezes  and  tear  in  wide  open,  willin'  to  risk  anything 


164          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

for  a  chance  to  stick  over  a  haymaker.  Then  the  old 
master  flits  about  the  maddened  slugger,  rippin'  in 
stingin'  hooks  and  jabs  and  keepin'  up  a  runnin'  fire  of 
conversation  which  would  make  a  paralytic  rabbit  take 
a  punch  at  a  Bengal  tiger.  Till  at  length,  arm  weary 
and  discouraged,  the  pantin'  tramp  staggers  about  the 
ring  a  crimson,  battered  hulk  that  dully  wishes  only  one 
thing  in  this  wide,  wide  world,  and  that's  the  sound  of 
the  final  bell ! 

Every  guy  has  his  weak  point — even  Adam  was  a 
apple  addict — and  these  cool-headed  glove  artists  is  no 
exception.  The  trouble  with  these  flashy  boxers  is  that 
nine  and  seven-eighths  times  out  of  ten  they  can't  hit. 
To  jazz  a  well-known  say  in',  they  can  lead  their  man 
to  slaughter,  but  they  cannot  make  him  sink !  And  the 
mob  don't  want  no  part  of  these  babies  which  could 
box  ten  rounds  under  a  needle  shower  without  gettin' 
hit  by  a  drop  of  water.  They  want  to  see  somethin' 
fall,  and  as  a  result  these  cool,  shifty  scientists  never 
get  the  popularity  that  comes  to  a  killer  of  the  Dempsey 
type. 

How  the  so  ever,  occasionally  up  pops  a  miracle 
which  not  only  does  he  pack  a  opiate  in  each  glove, 
but  he's  also  got  somethin'  connected  with  his  dome 
besides  a  couple  of  tin  ears.  He  can  box  with  the 
boxers,  slug  with  the  sluggers,  and  give  the  gluttons 
for  punishment  acute  indigestion.  Kid  Roberts  be 
longed  to  this  class,  and  it  was  usin'  his  cranium  when 
his  right  cross  wasn't  enough  in  his  brawl  with  Gour- 
net,  the  French  champ,  which  turned  certain  defeat  into 
a  sudden,  sensational  win. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     165 

The  Bandsman  Shayne  melee  kind  of  throwed  a 
damper  over  business  for  a  spell,  as  the  rest  of  the 
English  fistic  stars  figured  the  Kid  was  too  tough  for 
'em  after  readin'  the  punch-by-punch  account  of  that 
muss.  We  was  about  ready  to  come  back  to  the  Home 
of  the  Brave  when  I  run  into  a  big  English  boxin'  pro 
moter  up  at  the  National  Sportin'  Club's  fights  one 
night.  This  bird  had  a  concession  to  put  on  a  mill  at 
no  less  than  Monte  Carlo,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week 
I  have  put  up  a  five-thousand-buck  appearance  forfeit 
and  signed  the  Kid  to  meet  anybody  the  promoter 
selected  for  a  twenty-round  argument  at  roulette's 
home  town  within  a  month.  We  was  guaranteed  twenty 
thousand  iron  men  and  two  round-trip  tickets,  with  a 
privilege  of  35  per  cent  of  the  gross.  Pretty  soft,  hey? 

When  I  got  back  to  our  hut  after  signin'  the  articles 
I  found  the  Kid  conspicuous  by  his  absence,  so  I  sit 
down  to  look  at  a  bunch  of  them  illustrated  sportin' 
papers  without  which  no  American  barber  shop  is 
properly  equipped  and  which  had  just  been  sent  to  me 
from  home.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  me  is  how 
things  has  changed  with  the  regard  to  the  ads  which 
fills  up  the  back  pages.  They  used  to  be  whole  columns 
of  stuff  like  "Drink  Habit  Cured  with  One  Dose !"  and 
"Send  Us  a  Buck  and  We'll  Make  Him  Sober !"  but 
now  it's  all  different.  The  advertisements  which 
greets  the  eye  these  days  is :  "Own  Your  Own  Still ! 
Complete  Brewery,  $2,"  and  "Make  Your  Hooch  at 
Home  and  Giggle  at  Prohibition.  3,000  Sure-Fire 
Recipes,  One  Case  Note!" 

Suddenly  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  I  extended 
the  courtesies  of  our  boudoir  in  a  loud  but  friendly 


166          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

voice.  Said  door  opens,  and  allows  a  tall,  thin  guy  of 
about  thirty  autumns  to  ease  into  the  room,  remove 
a  pair  of  yellow  gloves,  and  regard  me  with  a  cold  and 
fishy  eye.  He's  wearin'  a  pair  of  glasses  which  looks 
like  spare  rims  for  a  flivver,  and  was  dressed  in  what 
was  like  as  not  the  height  of  fashion  somewheres, 
only  I  don't  know  where.  A  gold-headed  cane  com 
pletes  the  layout.  His  openin'  remark  is  a  cough. 
I  easily  ducked  that,  and  he  followed  it  up  with :  "As 
I  understand  it,  I  am  speaking  to  the — er — ah — mana 
ger  of  Kane  Halli— of  Kid  Roberts?" 

"You  are  awarded  the  chiffon  ice  pick!"  I  says. 
"What  of  it?" 

"May  I  sit  down  for  a  moment?"  he  remarks,  glancin' 
about  the  room  and  lettin'  forth  a  slight  shudder  when 
he  sees  the  forty-six  colored  bath  robe  I  had  bought  for 
the  Kid. 

"What  d'ye  want  ?"  I  hollers  pleasantly.  "Get  to  the 
point  and  be  done  with  it !" 

He  presents  me  with  a  frown  and  slides  into  a  chair. 
"I  shall  get  to  the  point,  you  may  rest  assured,"  he 
says.  "I  am  a — ah — a  friend  of  Hall — of  Kid  Roberts, 
and  I  have  some  information  to  impart  to  him  that — ah 
— that  is  so  vital  to  his  future  welfare  that,  in  order 
to  deliver  it  to  him  personally,  I  have  missed  my  boat 
connections  to  Paris." 

"That's  tough !"  I  says.  "What  d'ye  want  me  to  do 
— bust  into  sobs?  The  Kid  ain't  here.  Tell  me  the 
bad  news,  and  I'll  slip  it  to  him  the  second  he  comes  in." 

"That  is  impossible!"  he  says,  very  chilly.  "If  you 
are  really  a — ah — a  friend  of  Roberts,  you  will  find 
him  for  me  at  once !" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     167 

I  got  up  and  looked  him  over,  and  he  leans  back  in 
the  chair  and  begins  to  tap  one  hand  in  the  palm  of 
the  other  and  gaze  out  the  window  at  the  city  of  Lon 
don.  So  I  put  my  hat  on  the  place  I  bought  it  for  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"Who  shall  I  say  is  seekin'  him?"  I  asks,  hesitatin'. 

The  mysterious  stranger  turns  loose  a  yawn,  reaches 
into  a  side  pocket,  and  hands  me  a  card,  on  which,  from 
the  feel  to  the  naked  hand,  the  letters  is  raised  a  foot 
high.  Naturally  I  glanced  at  it.  It  says  the  f ollowin' : 


AUGUSTUS  ROBERTSON-CARROWSMITH,  3o. 


Sweet  Mamma! 

"So  you're  a  infielder,  hey  ?"  I  remarks  courteously. 

A  icy  eyebrow  goes  up.     "Beg  pardon?"  he  says. 

I  waved  the  card  at  him.  "It  says  on  this  you  play 
third,  don't  it  ?"  I  explains. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  get  Mister — eh — 
Roberts  at  once  ?"  he  snorts,  and  gimme  a  splendid  view 
of  his  back. 

By  dumb  luck  I  run  into  the  Kid  in  the  hotel  lobby, 
so  I  slipped  him  the  card  this  guy  gimme.  A  short 
look  is  all  that's  needed  to  make  the  Kid's  naturally 
fair  complexion  seven  shades  lighter  and  sends  his  eye 
brows  into  a  hard,  straight  line.  He  crams  the  card 
into  his  pocket  like  he  wanted  to  shove  it  all  the  ways 
through,  and  then  follows  me  into  the  elevator  with 
out  a  word. 


168  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

When  we  stepped  into  our  room  Mister  Agustus 
Robertson-Carrowsmith,  3d,  got  up  at  once  and  shoved 
his  hand  out  to  the  Kid,  which  was  lookin'  him  up  and 
down  very  stern  and  cold. 

"Well,  Halliday,"  says  Augustus,  "I  suppose  you 
must  guess  the  purpose  of  my  visit." 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  why  I  am  so  honored," 
answers  the  Kid,  payin'  everything  but  attention  to 
the  other  guy's  outstreched  hand.  "Make  this  inter 
view  as  brief  as  possible,  Carrowsmith !" 

Friend  Augustus  registers  what  is  known  far  and 
wide  as  a  blush.  "May  we  have — ah — privacy?"  he 
inquires,  with  a  slight  nod  at  me. 

"Say  anything  you  have  to  say  before  this  gentle 
man,"  snaps  the  Kid.  "Only  say  it  quickly !" 

"Very  well,"  bows  Augustus,  3d,  turnin'  his  back 
to  me  to  show  his  cordiality.  "Halliday,  I  have  dis 
covered  that  you  are  masquerading  under  the  name  of 
— ah — Kid  Roberts,  and  that — you  will  pardon  me,  but 
I  must  be  plain — and  that  you  are  a — ah — a  common 
prize  fighter !" 

"Well?"  says  the  Kid,  foldin'  his  arms  and  as  cold 
as  a  icicle. 

This  here  didn't  seem  to  be  just  what  Augustus  had 
expected.  I  think  he  figured  on  creatin'  a  sensation 
at  the  least.  However,  he  bucked  up  and  went  on :  "I 
have  come  to — ah — to  offer  you  a  position  with  us  as — - 
as — ah — well,  I  am  sure  father  will  find  something  foi 
you  to  do  at — ah — at  a  nominal  salary  until  you — ah — ' 
rehabilitate  yourself.  In  a  word,  I  have  come  to  save  you 
from  the  humiliating  position  you  have — ah — fallen  into 
through  your  father's  unfortunate — ah — failure.  I — " 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     169 

"Save  your  breath,"  the  Kid  cuts  him  off.  "I  am 
perfectly  content  as  I  am !" 

"Content!"  gasps  Augustus,  throwin'  up  his  hands 
and  rollin'  his  eyes  to  the  ceilin'.  "Gad,  man — are  you 
insane?  Kane  Halliday  a  prize  fighter!  Think  if  this 
should  become  public  property — why,  damn  it,  man, 
you've  got  to  stop  this  degrading  thing !  You  owe  it 
to  your  friends,  your  college,  your — " 

"Stop !"  roars  the  Kid,  his  face  whiter  than  the  color 
itself.  "How  dare  you  come  here  and  patronize  me, 
you  hound !  Your  father  and  his  gang  of  legalized  cut 
throats  stripped  me  and  mine  to  the  bone — picked  us 
up,  broke  us  in  bits,  and  threw  us  away.  Took  advan 
tage  of  friendship,  trust,  and  what  none  but  criminals 
would  call  opportunity  to  ruin  us,  and  you  dare  to  offer 
me  an  underling's  job  where  I  probably  would  be  get 
ting  my  weekly  pittance  from  the  money  you  wrung 
from  my  own  father !  I  owe  nothing  to  my  friends — I 
have  no  friends — they  scurried  away  like  the  rats  they 
were  from  the  sinking  ship  of  my  father's  fortunes. 
As  to  my  college,  it  should  be  proud  of  me.  At  least, 
it  didn't  turn  out  a  quitter!  I  took  my  medicine  and 
I'm  making  good  now  on  my  own.  It'll  be  a  long  climb 
back,  but  I'll  get  there,  Carrowsmith,  and  when  I  get 
there  I'll  get  you.  Now  go,  or  I'll  further  shock  your 
damned  hypocritical  dignity  by  throwing  you  out  of 
my  room!" 

Augustus  gasped,  give  a  shiver,  and  tried  to  malee 
a  dignified  exit.  He  failed. 

The  Kid  takes  out  a  handkerchief  and  wipes  his 
hands  carefully,  though  he  hadn't  touched  this  bird 


170          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

at  all.  Then  he  glances  at  his  watch  and  whistles. 
"Hurry  up  and  get  into  your  evening  clothes,"  he  barks 
at  me,  startin'  the  water  in  the  bathtub  and  commencin' 
to  strip.  "We're  going  up  to  the  Savoy,  where  some 
of  the  bunch  who  were  in  my  class  at  Yale,  and  happen 
to  be  here,  are  giving  me  a  little  dinner  to  celebrate  my 
approaching  contest  with  the  world's  champion." 

"Yale  guys?"  I  says.  "Why,  what  tha — why,  I 
thought  all  them  old  Elis  was  off  you  for  life  since 
you  become  a  leather  pusher?" 

"Why  ?"  inquires  the  Kid.  "Because  that  little  rotter 
Carrowsmith  came  here  and  upbraided  me  ?"  He  curls 
his  lip.  "Don't  be  an  ass !  Carrowsmith  no  more 
represents  the  real  college  spirit  than  a  mongrel  hound, 
for  instance,  represents  the  spirit  of  the  blooded  dog." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  I  cuts  him  off,  "go  ahead.  I'm 
glad  to  hear  them  babies  is  regular  guys — but  where 
do  /  fit  in  this  here  party  ?" 

"Whither  I  goest,  thou  goest !"  laughs  the  Kid.  "As 
my  friend  and  manager,  you'll  be  as  welcome  as  I'll 
be.  Come  on,  snap  into  it — you  have  just  about  time 
to  shave." 

"Nothin'  stirrin' !"  I  says.  "I  belong  at  a  Yale  dinner 
the  same  way  I  belong  in  the  White  House !  My  gram 
mar  would  never  stand  up  under  the  strain  of  bein'  al 
lowed  to  roam  wild  among  a  lot  of  cuckoos  with  F.  O. 
B.,  B.  A.,  I.  E.,  and  the  like  tacked  after  their  names." 

"Come  on!"  he  grins,  givin'  me  what  he  prob'ly 
figured  was  a  playful  push  and  which  flopped  me  on 
top  of  the  bed.  "Don't  be  a  crape  hanger  all  your  life. 
These  boys  are  regular  fellows.  I  know  you're  going 
to  like  them,  and  they're  going  to  like  you !" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     171 

And,  gentle  reader,  such  turned  out  to  be  the  case. 
They  was  half  a  dozen  of  them  boola-boola  birds  on 
hand,  most  of  'em  sons  of  guys  which  has  $160  for 
every  mongolian  in  Shanghai,  and  they  all  checked  up 
as  aces.  Anyways  you  want  to  look  at  it,  a  beaucoup 
time  was  had  by  all  with  a  real  gang,  and  if  by  some 
odd  coincidence  I  ever  get  wed  I  will  ship  the  plurality 
of  my  children  to  the  handiest  college,  if  only  for  the 
chance  they'll  get  therein  to  be  regular  when  they  come 
out! 

How  the  so  ever,  we  met  somebody  at  this  dinner 
which  come  near  costin'  Kid  Roberts  his  chance  at  the 
world's  heavyweight  title,  about  a  quarter  of  a  million 
bucks,  and  Dolores  Brewster.  This  somebody  was  the 
only  scrapper  in  the  world  I  conceded  could  put  Kid 
Roberts  down  for  the  long  count.  Could  trim  him  with 
out  gettin'  warmed  up  and  could  trim  him  to  the 
Queen's  taste.  Here  was  a  battler  which  had  took  'em 
all  on,  regardless  of  weight,  age,  color  or  distance, 
knocked  'em  all  kickin',  and  had  never  had  a  scrap  that 
was  even  close!  They  all  turned  into  set-ups  when 
they  went  to  the  post  with  this  battle-scarred  veteran. 
Why,  to  give  you  a  idea  of  just  how  tough  this  baby  is, 
they  won't  even  let  him  fight  in  America  no  more !  The 
guy  I  have  reference  to  is  Jack  Barleycorn. 

Well,  Kid  Roberts  never  done  nothin'  by  halves — 
he  never  outpointed  no  guys,  he  knocked  'em  cold — and 
the  next  mornin'  I  catch  him  orderin'  brandy  and  soda 
from  a  bell  hop,  and  he  ain't  been  out  of  bed  five  min 
utes.  I  give  the  bell  hop  the  air,  and  when  the  Kid 
banged  out  of  the  room  a  half  hour  later  we  was  both 
hoarse,  and  he  had  swore  that  his  scrap  at  Monte  Carlo 


172          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

was  his  last  under  my  management.  Still  in  that  humor, 
he  called  on  Miss  Dolores  Brewster  and  managed 
to  get  himself  in  wrong  with  her.  This  released  the 
last  brake  the  Kid  had  on  himself,  and  when  I  fin'ly 
dug  him  up  at  midnight  in  a  extry  swell  Piccadilly 
booze  emporium  he  was  buy  in'  for  one  and  all,  and  if 
W.  J.  Bryan  had  seen  the  shape  he  was  in  he'd  of  bust 
out  cryin'.  A  young  army  officer  which  had  trailed 
around  with  the  Kid  all  night  told  me  they  had  been 
gave  the  raspberry  at  the  Carlton  when  the  Kid 
climbed  up  on  the  bar,  announced  himself  as  the  only 
son  of  Old  King  Cole,  and  demanded  that  a  covey  of 
fiddlers  be  sent  to  him  at  once. 

Kid  Roberts  opens  a  watery  eye  about  noon  the  next 
day,  drinks  between  four  and  twenty-one  gallons  of 
ice  water,  and  apologizes  to  the  world  at  large.  He 
listens  to  my  bawlin'  out  in  silence  whilst  shavin',  and 
then  he  sit  down  and  wrote  about  ninety  telegrams  to 
Miss  Dolores  Brewster,  sendin'  one.  They  was  no 
answer,  and  fin'ly,  by  the  via  of  the  telephone,  he  found 
out  that  Dolores  and  her  dad  had  gone  to  Paris,  leavin' 
no  word  for  him  what  the  so  ever. 

From  then  on  I  had  my  hands  full  keepin'  this  big  kid 
within  the  bounds  of  reason  and  away  from  the  festive 
brew.  I  give  him  lectures  which  would  of  got  me  thirty 
solid  weeks  on  any  Chautauqua  circuit  in  the  world,  and 
I  endeavored  to  keep  right  on  his  back  from  the  time 
the  alarm  clock  made  good  in  the  mornin'  till  we  set 
the  thing  at  night.  But  there  was  times  when  he  man 
aged  to  slip  away,  and  by  the  day  we  hit  Monte  Carlo, 
with  the  battle  less  than  a  week  off,  constant  cigarette 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     173 

smokin'  had  ruined  his  wind,  he  was  flabby  and  out  of 
condition,  and  he  didn't  give  a  trout's  foot  whether  he 
fought  Gournet,  the  guy  the  English  promoter  had 
picked  to  meet  him,  or  not. 

I  knew  that  Dolores  Brewster's  father  would  be  at 
the  ringside,  because  the  old  guy  was  a  blown-in-the- 
flask  fight  bug  and  had  promised  the  Kid  he  would  be 
there,  after  seein'  him  flatten  the  English  champ  a  few 
weeks  before.  Whilst  talkin'  to  us  after  that  brawl 
Senator  Brewster  had  also  let  fall  the  information  that 
he  always  stopped  at  the  Hotel  Crillon  when  in  the  city 
which  added  "oo-la-la"  to  our  language.  So,  in  a  loud 
and  desperate  voice  I  called  on  a  woman  for  help  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  sit  down  and  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Miss  Dolores  Brewster,  tellin'  her  that  since  her 
and  the  Kid  fell  out  he  was  goin'  to  Gehenna  at  a  speed 
which  would  make  a  nervous  greyhound  look  like  a 
crippled  snail.  I  explained  just  what  he  was  doin',  just 
what  was  at  stake,  and  that  I  was  playin'  her  as  my 
last  card.  I  also  worked  in  the  fact  that  unless  Kid 
Roberts  pulled  himself  together  at  once,  this  French 
battler  would  murder  him,  and  the  disgrace  would  bury 
him,  addin'  that  the  Kid's  future  was  in  her  hands  and 
that  a  mere  note  from  her  with  a  couple  of  "dears" 
and  a  few  mentions  of  the  preposition  "love"  in  it 
would  make  everything  Jake. 

I  mailed  the  above  to  the  Hotel  Crillon  and  give  my 
self  up  to  the  art  of  wishin'. 

Well,  I  run  a  dead  heat  with  Aladdin,  and  he  had  a 
lamp.  The  day  of  the  bout  no  less  than  Dolores  Brews 
ter  breezed  into  Monte  Carlo  herself !  This  was  beyond 


174          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

my  wildest  nightmares,  and  I  was  over  to  the  hotel  she 
phoned  me  from  in  one  runnin'  jump.  In  the  lobby  I 
bump  into  "Honest  Joe"  Hammond,  which,  with  a 
bunch  of  other  globe-trotters  in  his  line,  is  makin'  book 
on  the  fight. 

"What  about  this  muss?"  he  says,  pullin'  me  aside 
before  I  can  duck  him.  "I'm  layin'  three  to  one  Roberts 
cops,  but  I'm  gettin'  a  big  play  from  some  American  and 
English  jobbies  on  this  Gournet  guy.  It  don't  sound 
reasonable.  Are  you  levelin'  with  the  Kid  in  this  one?" 

"We  level  in  all  of  'em!"  I  says.  "You  see  what's 
goin'  on,  and  you  know  as  much  as  I  do.  The  Kid's 
gone  cuckoo  and  ain't  trained  a  day — that's  the  low 
down  between  you  and  me — but  we  have  cooked  nothin' 
up.  Would  I  be  liable  to  lay  down  to  this  Frog  with 
a  crack  at  the  world's  title  in  sight  ?  The  Kid  ain't  in 
condition,  but — " 

"I  don't  care  if  he's  on  crutches !"  butts  in  "Honest 
Joe."  "If  you're  tryin',  that's  all  I  wanna  know.  So 
far  I'll  go  to  the  cleaners  for  sixty  thousand  men  if  Kid 
Roberts  don't  ash  home  in  front.  So  you  can  see !" 

I  reached  in  my  pocket  and  handed  him  a  roll  of 
fifteen  one-thousand-buck  notes,  or  "grands,"  as  them 
addicted  to  slang  calls  'em. 

"Bet  this  for  me,  Joe,"  I  says,  "at  them  3  to  1  odds 
you  was  talkin'  about,  and  take  2  per  cent  of  the  loot 
for  your  commission.  How  'bout  that?" 

"Honest  Joe"  merely  scribbled  a  receipt,  gimme  it, 
grinned,  and  drifted  away. 

An  hour  later  me  and  Miss  Dolores  Brewster  is  in 
the  world's  famous  casino  where  every  time  the 
roulette  wheel  stops  spinnin'  somebody  goes  cuckoo 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     175 

with  either  joy  or  grief.  From  all  the  reliable  reports 
we  can  get,  Kid  Roberts  is  in  there  somewheres — six 
hours  before  he  fights  Monsieur  Henri  Gournet,  heavy 
weight  champion  of  France ! 

I  planted  Dolores  Brewster  in  a  little  loungin'  room 
off  the  big  gamblin'  saloon,  whilst  I  shoved  hithers  and 
yon  through  the  mob  lookin'  for  the  Kid.  On  my 
travels  I  pass  to  one  side  of  a  bird  which  looks  terrible 
familiar,  and  in  a  second  I  got  him  pegged  as  no  less 
than  this  Carrowsmith  stiff  which  bawled  the  Kid  out 
in  London  for  bein'  a  pug.  Him  and  a  couple  of 
French  guys,  all  fairly  well  lit  up,  is  chatterin'  away  and 
I  was  all  set  to  eavesdrop  a  bit  when  I  see  Dolores 
makin'  her  way  to  the  long  roulette  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  big  room. 

I  was  beside  the  Kid's  future  bride  when  she  pushed 
her  way  through  the  hysterical  mob  around  the  table 
to  the  back  of  the  Kid's  chair.  Even  the  wildest  of 
'em  give  way  for  Dolores  after  one  look,  and  I  heard 
many's  the  gasp  which  the  turn  of  the  roulette  wheel 
had  nothin'  to  do  with!  At  the  right  of  the  Kid  was  a 
bunch  of  hard-lookin'  guys,  leanin'  almost  on  top  of 
him,  apparently  watchin'  his  play  and  makin'  cracks  to 
each  other  in  French.  I  didn't  like  the  way  they  was 
lookin'  at  the  Kid  and  then  at  each  other,  but  I  didn't 
get  no  chance  to  take  that  part  of  it  up,  because  Do 
lores  leaned  right  over  the  Kid  and  whispered  somethin' 
in  his  ear. 

For  a  instant  he  looked  straight  ahead  with  his  eyes 
starin'  open  and  his  jaw  droppin'  like  he  couldn't  be- 
.lieve  his  ears.  Then  he  got  slowly  up,  swung  around, 


176          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

and  faced  Dolores.  There  they  stood  lookin'  at  each 
other,  like  that  crowded,  buzzin'  room  was  a  deserted 
island  and  they  had  each  discovered  for  the  first  time 
that  they  was  somebody  else  on  it.  I  noticed  this  Car- 
rowsmith  guy  and  his  two  pals  pushin'  through  the  out 
side  fringe  of  the  crowd,  and  the  tough  lookers  which 
had  been  hangin'  around  the  Kid's  chair  also  seemed 
to  be  gettin'  uncomfortably  close.  As  I  reached  down 
to  grab  some  of  the  Kid's  winnin's,  which  he  seemed  to 
of  lost  all  interest  in,  I  remember  feelin'  a  sudden  chill. 

Then  comes  the  movie ! 

Dolores  stepped  back,  motionin'  for  the  Kid  to  fol 
low,  and  in  doin'  so  bumped  squarely  into  Carrowsmith. 
This  bimbo  made  no  attempt  to  get  out  of  her  way,  but 
stood  there  with  one  hand  on  her  shoulder,  grinnin' 
somethin'  in  her  ear.  At  the  same  minute  the  Kid  seen 
him  for  the  first  time,  but  the  sneer  of  recognition  was 
wiped  off  his  features  when  Dolores  drawed  back,  her 
skin  flamin',  and  slapped  Carrowsmith  in  the  face.  The 
two  guys  with  him,  grabbin'  her  arms,  begin  to  laugh, 
and  then,  with  a  hoarse  snarl,  the  Kid  dove  through 
the  mob  sendin'  'em  scatterin'  right  and  left.  The 
roughnecks  immediately  closed  in  after  him,  and  one 
of  'em  stuck  out  his  foot  but  missed  trippin'  the  Kid, 
when  a  chair  caught  him  square  in  the  back  of  the  neck 
and  closed  his  interest  in  the  further  proceedin's.  I 
swing  a  mean  chair ! 

The  Kid's  first  rush  landed  him  in  front  of  Carrow 
smith  and  his  two  stewed  allies,  and  they  went  down 
so  hard  they  was  all  cold  sober  when  they  hit  the  floor. 
The  Kid  wheeled  and  swung  Dolores  up  on  the 
roulette  table,  and.  with  his  back  to  it,  took  the  plunge 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     177 

of  the  mob  with  his  bare  fists,  pumpin'  'em  back  and 
forth  as  regular  as  a  steam  riveter  and  with  about  the 
same  execution.  Usin'  what  was  left  of  a  gilt  chair 
as  a  persuader,  I  worked  my  way  to  him,  layin'  about 
me  right  merrily.  I  have  been  in  some  busy  corners 
in  my  time,  but  for  fifteen  minutes  of  action  and  thrills 
the  battle  of  Monte  Carlo  leads  the  league !  It  is  safe 
to  say  that  this  gilded  joint  never  staged  nothin'  like 
this  before  and  never  will  no  more — this  here  world's 
famous  gamblin'  palace,  where  when  a  guy  ruins  him 
self  they  give  him  a  gat  and  ask  him  will  he  kindly  step 
out  in  the  garden  before  usin'  it,  so's  not  to  muss  up 
the  place  and  disturb  the  other  players.  But,  then,  they 
never  had  no  mob  in  there  before  like  the  Roberts- 
Gournet  fight  brung  there  either !  Women  begin  to 
faint  and  scream  respectively  and  perfect  strangers  fell 
to  maulin'  each  other  with  a  gusto.  By  the  time  the 
dinky  little  coppers  with  their  trick  swords  was 
swarmin'  into  the  place,  the  Kid  and  me,  shieldin'  Miss 
Dolores  Brewster  between  us,  walloped  our  way  out  a 
side  door  to  the  car  I  had  brung  her  there  in. 

We  dropped  Miss  Brewster  a  block  from  her  hotel, 
so's  that  if  the  law  was  awaitin'  us  she  wouldn't  be 
mixed  up  in  the  thing.  My  idea,  however,  was  that  the 
gendarmes,  havin'  got  to  the  Casino  a  trifle  late  for  the 
big  show,  would  have  no  idea  who  started  the  thing, 
and  Gournet's  merry  men  wouldn't  tip  'em  off  because 
if  we  got  pinched  and  couldn't  fight  they  couldn't  collect 
their  bets.  I  had  it  about  right. 

We  got  up  to  our  room  without  no  trouble,  except 
that  we  widened  many  a  eye  and  caused  a  epidemic 


178          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

of  shoulder  shruggin'  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
lobby  as  we  crossed  to  the — eh — lift  (foreign  stuff). 
There  is  no  question  that  we  was  a  couple  of  tough- 
lookin'  babies !  Half  of  my  suit  was  elsewhere.  I 
didn't  have  no  hat  and  I  was  featurin'  a  rapidly  closin' 
left  eye.  The  Kid  looked  like  a  new  English  copper 
after  his  first  night  patrollin'  a  beat  in  Cork.  Both  his 
hands  was  badly  bruised  and  swollen,  and  in  two  or 
three  hours  he  was  goin'  to  climb  into  the  ring  against 
Monsieur  Henri  Gournet. 

He  never  said  a  word  from  the  time  we  left  Miss 
Brewster  till  we  got  safely  in  our  room.  Then  he 
walked  up  to  the  mirror  and  give  himself  a  long  once 
over,  lettin'  forth  a  sigh  that  rattled  the  window  shades. 

"Cheer  up,  Kid,"  I  says,  slappin'  him  on  a  gory 
shoulder.  "We  have  qualified  as  union  movie  heroes 
this  afternoon!  Look  what  we  done — we  bust  up  the 
gamblin'  hell,  rescued  the  fair  damsel,  knocked  the  vil 
lain  for  a  row  of  ash  cans,  and  to-night  we — " 

He  throws  off  my  arm  and  tears  himself  away  from 
the  glass. 

"Let  me  alone.  I  feel  like  a  beast !"  he  snarls,  rippin' 
off  what's  left  of  his  shirt  and  hurlin'  it  in  a  corner. 
"That  hound  Carrowsmith  was  right,"  he  adds.  "I 
have  become  degraded!"  Whilst  he's  talkin'  he  jerks 
out  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  bureau  and  slams  it  on 
the  floor.  "Here,"  he  growls,  "have  a  porter  come  up 
and  clean  out  this  mess !"  The  next  minute  he's  in  the 
bathroom  under  the  shower. 

"This  mess"  was  several  bottles  of  hooch  which  had 
been  the  Kid's  travelin'  companions  for  his  brief  tour 
as  Young  King  Cole.  That  was  the  first  and  last  time 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     179 

the  Kid  hit  up  the  red-eye  whilst  I  had  him,  and  after 
all  he'd  done  he  was  entitled  to  one  joy  ride — hey? 

We  got  down  to  the  arena  where  the  slaughter  was 
staged  and  into  the  ring  about  ten  that  night  without 
no  trouble  from  the  police.  The  crowd  was  no  bigger 
than  the  population  of  Nebraska,  only  more  mixed,  and 
when  they  seen  the  Kid's  somewhat  battered  appear 
ance  as  he  climbed  shakily  through  the  ropes  there  was 
quite  a  shout  went  up.  The  French  champ  looked 
twenty  pounds  heavier  than  the  clean-muscled  Kid,  and 
was  covered  with  fur  like  a  grizzly.  I  walked  right 
over  to  him  and  shoved  through  his  handlers. 

"Lafayette,  we  are  here !"  I  remarks.  "Them  gun 
men  of  yours  failed  to  cook  us  this  afternoon,  and  we 
aim  to  square  up  with  you  in  the  next  couple  of  rounds. 
Don't  try  no  tricks  to-night,  Frog,  or — " 

"Je  ne  comprends  pas,  monsieur!"  he  butts  in. 

"Try  it  and  I'll  murder  you !"  I  says,  and  turns  my 
attention  to  the  Kid. 

He  needed  it.  He  was  shaky  and  used  up  from  the 
afternoon's  melee,  disgusted  with  himself  for  lettin' 
the  beautiful  Dolores  see  him  in  that  rough  and  tumble, 
and  the  hostile,  foreign  crowd  was  shootin'  his  nerves 
to  pieces.  He  wanted  the  thing  over  with,  and  he  glared 
across  the  ring  at  Henri  Gournet  till  friend  Henri  be 
gin  lickin'  his  lips  and  turnin'  his  face  the  other  way. 

The  French  referee  was  as  excited  as  a  bride  lookin' 
up  time-tables  for  her  first  honeymoon  trip,  and  he 
must  of  learned  the  English  language  from  a  ouija 
board,  because  all  he  knowed  was  "Yes"  and  "No." 
I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  his  intructions  was, 
and  the  next  minute  the  party  is  on. 


180  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

It  was  easy  to  see  before  they  had  exchanged  a  half 
dozen  blows  that  the  Kid  carried  the  heavier  guns,  but 
Gournet,  like  most  of  them  foreign  scrappers  which 
gets  anywheres,  was  a  boxer  rather  than  a  slugger.  He 
was  satisfied  to  carry  on  the  battle  at  long  range  and 
outpoint  his  man,  whereas  and  to  wit  the  Kid  wanted 
to  end  it  with  a  punch  and  took  a  dozen  wallops  without 
seemin'ly  tryin'  to  duck  'em  in  order  to  land  one  crusher. 
He  chased  his  man  all  over  the  ring,  but  the  Frog  was 
clever  and  kept  slidin'  along  the  ropes,  keepin'  the  Kid 
off  balance  with  a  very  sweet  straight  left  that  pecked 
at  the  edges  of  the  Kid's  unhealed  wounds  of  the  after 
noon  and  opened  'em  up.  The  mob  was  yellin'  for  the 
Frenchman  to  take  a  chance  and  stand  up  to  the  Kid, 
but  Gournet  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  entreaties  and 
continued  to  back  pedal,  jab,  and  clinch  whenever  the 
Kid  shook  him  up.  Kid  Roberts  was  as  wild  as  a  in 
furiated  tiger  and  missed  a  dozen  haymakers,  each  miss 
makin'  him  wilder  and  all  of  which  tickled  the  mob 
silly.  Toward  the  end  of  the  round  he  fin'ly  connected 
with  a  savage  right  to  the  body  and  Gournet's  grunt 
could  be  distinctly  heard  in  South  Wales.  His  knees 
sagged  and  he  dove  wildly  into  a  clinch,  but  the  Kid 
shook  him  off  with  a  grin  and  drove  him  against  the 
ropes  with  a  left  to  the  jaw,  one  inch  too  high  or  that 
would  of  been  the  wind-up.  Quick  as  a  flash  the  Kid 
was  on  top  of  him,  suddenly  cool  and  unhurried  as  he 
measured  him  with  a  light  left  and  prepared  to  smash 
over  the  sleep  producer.  Gournet  suddenly  stuck  a 
feeble  left  in  the  Kid's  face.  They  was  no  steam  at  all 
behind  the  punch,  yet  the  Kid  staggered  back,  shook 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  then  was  short  by  a  foot 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     181 

with  both  hands  right  at  the  bell,  which  could  hardly 
be  heard  over  the  uproar  which  greeted  the  French 
man's  narrow  escape. 

The  mob  gave  the  Frog  a  ovation  as  he  stumbled  to 
his  corner,  and  his  seconds  jumped  in  to  give  him  a 
kiss !  The  Kid  slumped  down  heavily  on  his  stool  and 
dug  at  his  eyes  with  his  gloves. 

"You  must  have  let  some  of  that  alcohol  you  rubbed 
me  with  get  into  my  eyes,  you  fool !"  he  growls  at  me. 
"I  can  hardly  see  this  fellow  and  they're  smarting  ter 
ribly.  Wash  my  eyes  out,  quick !" 

I  pushed  back  his  head  and  examined  the  glims  in 
question.  No  wonder  the  Kid's  judgment  of  distance 
had  been  way  off.  They  was  red-rimmed  and  blood 
shot,  and  I  bet  they  was  painful!  I  put  handlers  on 
'em  with  sponges  soaked  in  ice  water,  and  then  I  looked 
over  to  Gournet's  corner — thinkin'.  Bendin  down  fin'ly 
I  sniffed  at  the  Kid's  eyes  and  in  two  jumps  I  was  in 
the  Frenchman's  corner,  divin'  through  his  handlers 
and  grabbin'  up  his  gloves  before  them  babies  knowed 
what  it  was  all  about.  One  smell  was  ample. 

That  big  stiff  had  soaked  both  his  gloves  in  oil  of 
mustard ! 

New  ?  No !  That  one  had  whiskers  on  it  when  the 
one  of  puttin'  lead  in  a  glove  was  born.  Can't  be  done ! 
Why  not?  Who  examines  a  fighter's  gloves  once  the 
bout's  under  way  ?  Any  old-time  scrapper  or  his  pilot 
will  grin  with  remembrance  when  he  reads  this.  It's 
pulled  quite  frequently  in  the  tall  timbers  to  this  day. 

Well,  the  referee  had  rushed  over  after  me  to  see 
what  was  the  trouble  and  the  coppers  was  havin'  a 
merry  time  tryin'  to  keep  the  interested  attendance  out 


182  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

of  the  ring.  I  immediately  claimed  the  fight  on  a  foul, 
and  the  English  promoter,  the  referee,  and  Gournet's 
manager  pulled  clocks  on  me  and  gimme  five  seconds 
to  get  out  of  the  ring.  I  danced  around  'em,  pointin' 
to  the  Frog's  gloves  and  then  to  my  handlers  workin' 
over  the  Kid's  eyes,  but  they  was  nothin'  stirrin'.  The 
promoter  yells  that  we  won't  get  a  nickel  if  we  don't 
fight,  and  he  would  also  see  that  the  authorities  found 
out  who  started  the  fracas  at  the  Casino. 

At  this  point  "Honest  Joe"  Hammond  sticks  his  head 
under  the  ropes  and  begs  me  to  go  ahead  and  kill  this 
Frenchman,  otherwise  him  and  his  pals  would  be  hit 
for  more  than  seventy  thousand  bucks.  In  the  midst 
of  the  argument  the  bell  rung  for  the  second  round, 
and  I  hollered  to  the  Kid  to  stay  on  his  stool,  at  the 
same  time  wavin'  my  handlers  down  and  steppin'  out 
side  the  ropes  myself  so's  this  referee  wouldn't  dis 
qualify  us  for  me  bein'  in  the  ring.  Gournet  dances 
out  to  the  center,  smilin'  at  his  friends,  and  the  referee 
steps  over  to  where  Kid  Roberts  is  still  sittin'  on  his 
stool,  half  blinded  and  crazy  with  pain.  He  gives  my 
boy  one  look  and  then,  raisin'  his  arms,  begins  countin' 
him  out  as  he  sit  there.  I  plowed  my  way  around  the 
mob  to  his  corner,  stood  the  perfectly  legal  count  till 
the  referee  reached  "nine,"  and  then  shoved  the  Kid 
flounderin'  into  the  ring. 

Instantly  Gournet  swung  his  right  to  the  jaw,  and  the 
Kid  crashed  to  the  mat,  rolled  over  on  his  stomach, 
and  was  up  at  eight,  weavin'  back  and  forth  on  his  feet, 
one  glove  to  his  eye  and  gropin'  for  the  Frenchman 
with  the  other  like  the  blind  man  he  was.  The  crowd 
had  gone  stark  crazy,  and  I  chewed  my  lips  till  the  hot 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     183 

blood  run  down  my  chin  at  the  sight  of  this  boy,  which 
I'd  brung  within  a  foot  of  the  world's  championship, 
bein'  slaughtered  in  cold  blood  by  this  third-rate,  foul- 
fightin'  Frog  tramp.  Again  the  Kid  hit  the  mat  from 
a  hurricane  of  lefts  and  rights  to  the  head,  and  again 
was  on  his  feet  before  the  fatal  "ten,"  grabbin'  the 
Frenchman  around  the  body  and  holdin'  on  for  his  life. 
Wow !  You  should  of  heard  that  crowd !  Gournet  had 
now  gone  cuckoo  himself  at  the  prospect  of  knockin' 
out  the  wonderful  Kid  Roberts — a  thing  which  never 
entered  his  head  when  he  entered  the  ring.  He  chopped 
himself  free  and  twice  more  floored  Roberts,  and  I  got 
a  couple  of  towels  ready  to  hurl  in,  with  my  heart 
busted  into  little  pieces  which  seemed  to  clog  up  the 
blood  in  my  veins !  As  I  bunched  up  the  towels,  I 
stuck  my  head  up  under  the  lower  rope  where  the  Kid 
was  on  one  knee  at  the  count  of  "seven."  His  head 
come  slowly  around  and  he  looked  at  me. 

"Stay  down,  Kid — we're  through  here!"  I  bellers 
hoarsely,  and  raised  my  arm  to  throw  in  the  rags  and 
save  the  boy  from  what  looked  like  downright  murder. 

He  shakes  his  head,  and  with  a  last  look  at  me  delib 
erately  winks! 

He  was  raisin'  himself  to  his  other  knee  when  "Hon 
est  Joe"  tore  the  towels  from  my  hand  with  what  is 
known  as  a  round  oath.  Kid  Roberts  got  to  his  feet, 
stumbled  around  like  a  movie  drunk,  and  started  what 
looked  like  a  last  despairin'  swing  at  Gournet's  jaw. 
In  his  eagerness  to  get  it  over  with,  the  Frenchman 
slipped  to  his  knees  rushin'  in,  and  the  blow  just  grazed 
his  hair  as  he  was  goin'  down.  On  the  second  the  Kid 
reaches  over  and  helps  him  to  his  feet,  though  he  nearly 


184  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

fell  on  him  doin'  it.  "J'en  suis  tres  fache,  mon  ami!" 
he  pants  with  a  crimson  smile. 

The  Frenchman  stops  short  with  a  look  of  absolute 
surprise  on  his  face  which  would  of  been  comical  if  the 
situation  hadn't  been  what  it  was.  The  idea  of  this 
poor  battered  boob,  which  could  scarcely  see  and  which 
he  had  fouled  from  the  go  in,  apologizin'  for  a  plain 
accident  seemed  to  paralyze  him  for  a  second.  He 
faltered  in  his  stride,  unconsciously  lowerin'  his  guard, 
and  in  that  same  second  the  Kid  suddenly  straightened 
up  and  crashed  him  face  down  on  the  gore-spattered 
canvas  with  a  right  hook  to  the  button  of  the  jaw.  He 
never  moved  a  muscle  while  the  dazed  referee  counted 
him  out — fifteen  seconds,  accordin'  to  "Honest  Joe" 
Hammond's  stop  watch. 

So  that  was  that! 

On  the  ways  back  to  Paris  I  was  busy  balancin'  our 
cash,  and  the  Kid  was  talkin'  to  "Honest  Joe,"  which 
seemed  to  have  lost  ten  years  of  his  age  somewheres. 

" — So  when  I  found  I  couldn't  see,  with  that  oil  of 
mustard  biting  at  my  eyes,"  the  Kid  was  sayin',  "I  real 
ized  that  I  was  in  for  a  severe  beating — that  Gournet 
can  hit ! — unless  I  met  that  fellow  at  his  own  game, 
matched  him  trick  for  trick.  Aside  from  the  first 
knockdown  in  the  second  round,  I  wasn't  floored !  I 
took  those  falls  deliberately  to  clear  my  head,  to  think, 
and  incidentally  to  allow  that  stuff  to  evaporate  from 
my  eyes.  I  decided  then  to  try  a  little — ah — psychology. 
I  figured  that  a  sudden,  unexpected  mental  shock 
would  momentarily  halt  the  Frenchman's  wild  lunges 
— interrupt  his  thinking  apparatus  which  was  timing 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     185 

his  blows.  So  when  he  slipped  I  instantly  seized  that 
second  to  act.  I  helped  him  up,  you  remember,  and 
apologized  courteously  and  stood  off,  apparently  wait 
ing  for  him  to  recover  his  poise.  That  unexpected  act 
had  the  desired  effect.  Astonished,  he  hung  fire  and — 
well,  I  knew  if  I  ever  landed  a  solid  punch  he  was 
whipped !" 

"Ehheh,"  says  Joe.  "Well,  that's  fine — fine  business. 
But  if  I  was  you,  boy,  I  wouldn't  draw  them  finishes 
so  close  hereafter !"  He  mops  his  brow  with  a  hand 
kerchief.  "Did  you  not  get  up  from  that  stool,  they 
would  of  took  me  down  the  line  for  about  seventy 
thousand  fish!  As  it  lays,  I  win  twenty-eight  thou 
sand  on  the  fight.  I  took  ten  thousand  even  from  one 
guy  alone." 

"Who  was  that  hick?"  I  asks,  from  idle  curiosity. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  says  Joe.  "This  dumb-bell 
didn't  even  see  the  quarrel.  He  was  the  guy  which  tried 
to  wreck  the  Casino  to-day,  y'know,  and  it  seems  he 
got  pinched.  He  gimme  his  card — "  Joe  searches  his 
vest  and  pulls  out  a  pasteboard.  "Here  it  is,"  he  says. 
"His  name's  Carrowsmith  and — what  are  you  guys 
laughin'  at?" 


ROUND  EIGHT 
HE  RAISED  KANE 

AMONGST  the  various  gents  which  baffles  the  alms- 
house  by  the  via  of  boxin',  there  is  one  baby  which  is 
seldom  the  hero  of  any  prize-ring  movies,  plays,  or 
novels,  yet  this  guy  is  as  important  to  the  box  fighter 
as  his  arms.  I  refer  to  the  coatless,  shirtless,  hoarse, 
and  perspirin'  custodian  of  the  water  bucket,  sponge, 
and  towels,  the  Gunga  Din  of  fistiana,  i.  e.,  the  second 
or  "handler." 

From  the  time  the  jovial  David  knocked  the  genial 
Goliath  for  a  goal,  pugilistic  history  is  dotted  with  the 
names  of  famous  seconds  whose  shrewdness,  swift 
thinkin',  imagination,  and  remarkable  knowledge  of 
ring  craft  has  saved  many's  the  totterin'  champ  from 
a  violent  and  sudden  partin'  with  his  title.  Again, 
poor  advice  at  a  critical  minute  from  a  excited 
handler  has  sent  scores  of  inexperienced  young  scrap 
pers  rushin'  off  their  stools  into  a  knockout,  when 
skillful  instructions  might  of  landed  them  home  a 
sensational  winner.  The  next  time  you  go  to  a  pro 
fessional  aggravated  assault  and  battery  seance  and  get 
sick  of  watchin'  a  couple  of  them  tired  business  men 
cuffin'  each  other,  shift  a  eye  over  to  their  corners 
and  watch  their  handlers  work.  The  ones  which 

1 86 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     187 

jumps  up  and  down  beside  the  ropes,  shuttin'  off  the 
view  of  guys  which  has  sent  in  from  five  to  twenty 
berries  for  a  look,  and  keeps  up  a  continued  screechin' 
of :  "Go  on,  kid,  knock  him  kickin' !"  "Bring  up  the 
left,  you  saphead  !  Bring  it  up!"  'Kill  the  big  tramp !" 
and  the  etc.,  is  as  big  a  handicap  to  their  man  as  tonsil 
litis  would  be  to  Galli-Curci.  When  the  fighter  can 
hear  their  bellers  at  all  over  the  roar  of  the  gore- 
hungry  mob,  it  irritates  and  confuses  him,  especially 
when  one  of  his  seconds  is  yellin'  for  him  to  shoot 
his  left  and  another  is  bawlin' :  "Send  in  'at  right!" 

That  type  of  second  don't  mean  nothin'  and  is  a 
heavy  liability  to  a  scrapper.  But  the  other  kind, 
these  babies  which  has  made  the  handlin'  of  fighters 
a  science,  is  worth  their  weight  in  rubies,  and  if  paid 
on  the  basis  of  their  actual  value  durin'  a  tough  bat 
tle,  would  get  half  their  man's  share  of  the  purse  at 
the  least.  You  seldom  see  them  birds  hoppin'  hithers 
and  yon  and  shriekin'  their  heads  off  whilst  their  man 
is  in  there  tryin'.  You'll  notice  they  crouch  as  close 
to  the  ropes  as  the  referee  will  let  'em  and  when 
their  boy  gets  puzzled  and  flicks  his  head  to  'em  for 
advice,  they  got  a  intelligent  answer  to  shout  him, 
some  crafty  move  to  recommend  which  usually  gets 
the  dazed  mauler  out  of  a  tough  hole. 

This  gent  earns  his  sugar  in  the  rest  between 
rounds,  not  whilst  his  boy  is  mixin'  it  up  and  com 
pelled  to  give  his  charmin'  opponent  his  undivided  at 
tention.  All  durin'  the  round  the  big-league  handler 
glues  his  eyes  on  the  fighters  and  his  brain  is  workin' 
faster  than  the  pumpin'  arms  of  the  pantin'  bruisers. 
He  picks  out  the  most  glarin'  weaknesses  of  his  boy 


188  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

and  also  those  of  the  other  bozo ;  he  gets  angles  and 
sees  chances  to  cop  quick  that  the  battler  can't  see  whilst 
he's  desperately  tryin'  to  land  his  haymaker  or  keep 
himself  from  kissin'  the  canvas.  He  dumps  out  his  en 
tire  bag  of  tricks,  collected  in  years  of  "bein'  behind" 
scrappers — champs  and  tramps.  He  pulls  stuff  that 
just  stops  at  bustin'  what  rules  the  game  has  and  fre 
quently  even  knocks  over  the  traffic  sign.  For  instance, 
a  beller  about  the  other  cuckoo's  gloves  bein'  too  light 
and  a  demand  that  they  be  examined.  He  knows  said 
gloves  are  O.  K.,  but  if  he  can  get  away  with  it,  the 
ensuin'  argument  with  the  referee  may  hold  up  the 
fight  for  even  three  minutes,  enough  to  give  his  battered 
scrapper  a  chance  to  recover.  When  his  boy  flops  on 
the  stool  at  the  end  of  a  hectic  frame,  watch  him  pour 
a  continuous  cool  and  unexcited  stream  of  advice  into 
the  kid's  crimson  ear  as  he  bends  over  him  and  kneads 
the  quiverin'  body  muscles.  Advice  that's  the  result 
of  expert  sizin'  up  of  what's  happened  in  the  round 
just  fought :  "Don't  try  to  box  with  this  guy,  keep 
sloughin'  him  all  the  way.  Pound  his  heart,  he  don't 
like  'em  there !"  or :  "Keep  this  boob  movin' ;  don't 
let  him  set — get  me?  Spar  him  off  this  frame.  Make 
him  miss  and  tire  him  out.  We'll  knock  him  dead  a 
little  while  later.  Don't  slug  with  him  till  I  tell  you !" 
and  so  forth,  till  the  bell  sounds  and  the  kid  steps  out 
again,  freshened  up,  clear-headed  and  confident. 

I  said  before  that  inexperienced  seconds  is  a  big 
handicap  to  a  box  fighter.  Yet  Kid  Roberts,  licked  to 
a  fare-thee-well,  sprang  from  his  stool  and  win  a 
world's  championship  solely  on  the  account  of  the 
two  guys  which  was  shakin'  the  towel  in  his  corner 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     189 

— two  guys   which  had   never   before   in   their  lives 
handled  a  fighter  and  never  did  again.     Let's  go ! 

After  we  have  bounced  the  French  title  holder  at 
Monte  Carlo,  all  the  other  foreign  leather  pushers  it 
would  have  been  worth  our  while  to  mingle  with  claimed 
exemption.  The  Senator  and  his  eye-soothin'  daughter 
havin'  concluded  their  business  abroad,  i.  e.,  havin'  a 
whale  of  a  time,  is  ready  to  sail  for  America,  and  of 
course  the  Kid  immediately  develops  a  terrible  yearnin' 
for  his  native  heath.  So  the  result  was  that  we  all 
sailed  for  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean  together.  The  Kid 
and  Dolores  went  into  secret  conferences  on  the  novel 
subject  of  love's  young  dream,  which  lasted  till  we 
slid  past  Quarantine  and  me  and  the  Senator  become 
familiar  figures  in  the  smokin'  room,  talkin'  each  other 
silly  on  subjects  from  boxin'  to  bankin'  and  politics  to 
parcheesi. 

Just  before  we  tied  up  at  the  dock  we  all  separated 
so's  to  fool  the  ship-news  reporters,  which  surrounded 
the  Senator  whilst  the  camera  boys  was  shootin'  the 
smilin'  Dolores  from  all  angles.  Three  feet  away, 
with  his  broad  back  to  'em,  stood  the  Kid,  and  I  kept 
wonderin'  how  much  the  newspaper  guys  would  give 
to  know  that  the  best  story  they'd  fell  across  in  many's 
the  day  was  right  under  their  noses.  Dolores  Brews- 
ter,  society  bud,  only  daughter  of  millionaire  Senator 
Brewster  of  New  York,  engaged  to  Kid  Roberts, 
heavyweight  championship  challenger.  Woof — Sweet 
Mamma ! 

Then  a  reporter  seen  the  Kid,  and  in  a  instant  a 
United  States  Senator  was  left  flat  on  his  back  right 


190  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

in  the  middle  of  lettin'  forth  a  opinion  on  Russia  or 
somethin'  equally  as  enthrallin',  whilst  the  reporters 
and  camera  men  swooped  down  on  the  grinnin'  Kid 
and  bombarded  him  with  foolish  questions.  I  stood 
by  beamin'  and  smirkin'  like  a  mother  watchin'  her 
boy  wonder  recitin'  the  twelve  o'clock  ride  of  Paul 
Revere  to  the  school  board.  Then  come  the  jolt! 

"Well,  Kid,"  says  a  sharp-eyed  little  runt  from 
the  "Evenin'  Moan,"  "what  are  you  gonna  do  about 
Dynamite  Jackson?" 

"Prob'ly  play  him  philately,"  I  says,  before  the 
Kid  can  answer.  "Who  the — eh — who's  Dynamite 
Johnson  ?" 

"Not  Johnson,"  says  the  reporter.  "Jackson — 
Dynamite  Jackson.  He's  a  gentleman  of  color,  and 
the  color  ain't  white !  Whilst  you  and  your  man-eater 
has  been  frolickin'  around  Europe,  this  big  dinge  has 
come  up  from  nowheres  and  made  a  name  for  him 
self  around  New  York.  He  flattened  Tiger  Anderson, 
Bull  Kelly,  Jim  Sewell,  and  Young  Scavelli  in  one 
round  the  each,  and  he  smacked  Soldier  Martin  for 
a  row  of  shanties  last  night  in  just  six  frames ! 
Whitey  Burns,  which  has  the  Arena  Club  in  Newark 
now,  stands  ready  to -offer  you  $55,000  for  your  end, 
win,  lose,  or  draw  for  eight  rounds,  no  decision.  Why, 
say,  the  mob  which  will  turn  out  to  see  this — " 

"That's  all  blah!"  I  cuts  him  off.  "We  never 
fought  no  dinge,  and  we  never  will !" 

"Now  look  here,  fellah!"  he  snarls,  shovin'  his 
sharp  little  face  up  to  me  "this  nigger  should  have  his 
chance.  If  you  duck  him,  I  will  personally  roast  your 
man  to  a  fare-thee-well,  beginnin'  with  to-morrow's 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     191 

paper.  Every  white  man  in  this  village  and  in  hun 
dreds  of  others  which  reads  the  papers,  and  has  heard 
of  both  Kid  Roberts  and  Dynamite  Jackson,  is  hopin' 
you'll  take  this  high-steppin'  dinge  and  knock  him 
dead.  I  hope  you  kill  him!  But  if  you  don't  take 
him  on — " 

"Just  a  moment!"  butts  in  the  Kid,  which  ain't 
batted  a  eye  durin'  all  of  this.  "I'm  afraid  you're  ex 
citing  yourself  unduly,  old  man.  When  I  first  went 
into  this  game,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  under  no  cir 
cumstances  would  I  ever  step  into  a  ring  with  a  colored 
man.  Never  mind  my  reasons — they're  ethical  and 
my  own.  But  your  contention  is  absolutely  right.  A 
real  champion  should  bar  no  one,  whether  it  be  a  con 
test  of  brains  or  brawn!  It  is  my  place  as  challenger 
to  prove  beyond  a  question  of  a  doubt  that  I  am  of 
championship  caliber.  Very  well,  I  will  meet  this 
negro,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned — to-morrow  night!" 

Warn! 

"Look  here,  you  guys — "  I  hollers,  whilst  the  re 
porters  is  tryin'  to  mob  the  Kid  and  a  little  bimbo 
as  large  as  a  chicken  and  with  the  same  kind  of  a  chest 
is  struttin'  around  and  bellerin'  about  the  undaunted 
white  race  to  a  big  fat  grinnin'  Senegambian  porter, 

«T » 

"Shut  up,  Stupid!"  grunts  the  reporter  from  the 
"Evenin'  Moan,"  "or  I'll  start  a  conspiracy  to  keep 
your  name  out  of  the  papers.  The  Kid's  the  guy  I 
should  of  talked  to  in  the  first  place.  How  a  real 
fighter  ever  got  tied  up  with  a  burglar  like  you  is 
past  me !  This  boy  has  got  to  where  he  is  on  sheer 
courage  and  his  own  nut.  The  first  time  he  takes 


192  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

one    syllable    of    advice    from    you,    he'll    become    a 
bum!" 

Well,  as  the  French  says :  "Kappa  Delta  Omega 
Tau!"  hey? 

The  Kid  didn't  fight  Dynamite  Jackson  the  next 
night,  but  they  did  crawl  through  the  ropes  before 
either  ten  or  thirty-six  thousand  maniacs  about  two 
weeks  later.  I'll  say  this  Ethiopium  was  good !  For 
three  rounds  he  toyed  with  the  cautious  Roberts  till 
none  of  the  crowd  could  speak  above  a  whisper  and 
most  of  'em  wanted  the  Kid's  life.  In  Round  Four, 
under  my  orders,  the  Kid  took  off  the  wraps  and 
murdered  all  the  bugs  with  weak  hearts  by  droppin' 
Jackson  twice.  In  Round  Five  they  stalled  some 
more  and  drawed  a  hat  and  program  shower  from 
the  cuckoos  in  the  gallery.  The  sixth  innin'  was  a 
wow !  They  both  come  out  to  end  it  with  a  punch,  and, 
boy,  it  was  pretty.  Both  could  hit  and  both  could 
take  it,  and  that's  what  happened.  This  dinge  fought 
like  his  life  depended  on  every  wallop,  and  right  at 
the  bell  he  connected  with  a  terrific  smash  to  the  body 
that  floored  the  Kid  in  his  own  corner.  It  took  some 
scientific  work  to  bring  him  around,  and  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  he  pushed  me  away  from  the  reddened 
side  I  was  anxiously  kneadin'.  His  face  was  a  pasty 
gray. 

"Don't  rub  that,  you  ass,"  he  groans  through  set 
teeth.  "He's  broken  one  of  my  ribs !" 

0  sole  mio! 

1  motioned  for  the  referee. 

"If   you  stop  this,   I'll  kill  you!"   snarls   Roberts, 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     193 

and  he  looked  it  as  he  sneers  out  at  the  ravin'  crowd. 
"Look  at  the  damn  beasts !"  he  grunts.  "Listen  to 
them.  The  blood  lust !  Look  at  that  fellow's  face." 
He  pushes  my  head  around  to  lamp  a  fat,  putty- faced 
guy — collar  gone,  eyes  poppin'  from  his  head,  and  per 
spiration  pourin'  off  him  in  streams,  who's  mouthin' : 

"The  big  bum's  yellah;  the  nigger'll  kill  him!"  over 
and  over  like  a  chant.  "And  I  have  to  perform  for 
that  animal!"  groans  the  Kid,  writhin'  in  agony  and 
talkin'  half  to  himself  now.  "Damn  that  nigger — is 
this,  then,  the  end  after  those  two  years  of  hell? 
Keep  that  fool  away  from  my  side  with  his  oil,  I — " 

The  bell  rung. 

Dynamite  Jackson  would  of  won  then  and  there  if 
he'd  of  known  the  damage  he'd  already  done.  But  he 
didn't,  for  the  Kid  was  grinnin'  at  him  coldly  and 
pokin'  out  his  marvelous  left.  The  dinge  looked  the 
picture  of  confidence  and  swung  his  head  for  a  wise 
crack  to  his  corner.  I  bet  they've  trained  him  out  of 
doin'  that  again!  As  his  bullet  head  flicked  aside, 
Roberts  whipped  both  arms  over  like  twin  snakes,  and 
— woof — how  it  must  of  hurt  him  to  straighten  up! 
The  left  took  Jackson  on  the  chin,  and  as  he  sagged 
forward  the  right — oh,  that  sweet  right ! — thudded 
home  over  the  heart  and,  brother,  no  man — not  Jack 
son,  not  Samson — could  of  taken  them  two  clean 
smashes  and  remained  upright. 

The  Kid  never  looked  back  at  him,  but  staggered 
over  into  my  arms.  Oh,  sure,  the  rib  was  busted  all 
right,  and  I'd  paged  a  medico  when  he  left  his  stool. 
We  left  Dynamite  Jackson  with  the  howlin'  lunatics. 
He  was  out  half  a  hour,  and  we  nearly  got  pinched. 


194          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 
So  that  was  that. 

The  Kid's  sensational  win  over  Dynamite  removed 
the  last  barrier  between  us  and  the  mill  with  the  champ, 
but  that  clout  in  the  ribs  gummed  up  the  works  a  bit. 
Some  X-ray  stills  of  the  thing  showed  a  nasty  frac 
ture,  and  the  best  bonesetter  in  New  York  claims  it 
would  be  suicide  for  the  boy  to  enter  a  ring  inside  of 
three  months.  However,  I  cheered  up  and  made  the 
best  of  it,  figurin'  that  the  long  rest  would  do  the 
Kid  good,  as  I  didn't  want  him  drawn  too  fine  from 
too  much  work.  Three  months'  lay-up  would  also  ease 
the  strain  on  his  nerves  and  give  him  a  chance  to  put 
on  weight — not  fat — for  the  champ,  which  scaled 
around  215  ringside  to  the  Kid's  195. 

They  was  little  hagglin'  over  signin'  the  articles, 
three  weeks  later.  Twenty-five  rounds  to  a  decision 
was  fin'ly  agreed  on  as  the  distance,  and  I  captured 
the  champ's  goat  early  by  remarkin'  that  two  rounds 
would  be  ample.  The  king  of  the  heavyweights  de 
manded  $125,000,  win,  lose,  draw,  or  earthquake,  and 
Jimmy  Brandt,  the  promoter,  which  had  come  prepared 
to  give  him  twice  that  and  throw  in  Grant's  Tomb  if 
necessary,  kidded  the  big  boob  into  fin'ly  acceptin' 
$110,000.  When  it  come  to  dealin'  with  us,  they  was 
even  less  bargainin'.  Me  and  Brandt  had  got  that  all 
set  a  week  before,  viz.,  $30,000  guarantee,  $10,000 
trainin'  expenses,  and  33  1-3  of  the  movie  rights. 
These  last  can  be  showed  in  Europe,  South  America, 
and  the  like,  and  if  the  massacre  goes  long  enough  is 
worth  more  than  you  think. 

Well,  after  I  have  put  up  a  ten-thousand-buck  ap- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     195 

pearance  forfeit,  swore  that  Kid  Roberts  would  box 
no  more  till  he  met  the  champ,  and  agreed  to  start 
trainin'  on  the  scene  of  the  battle  a  month  before  the 
clash,  the  champ  poses  for  some  newspaper  stills  with 
the  Kid,  and  we're  all  set.  Roberts  dashed  off  to  the 
fair  Dolores,  figurin'  her  half  dead  from  lonesome- 
ness,  as  he  hadn't  seen  her  for  about  a  hour,  whilst  I 
spent  a  pleasant  afternoon  signin'  movie  and  vaudeville 
contracts  for  the  Kid,  to  go  into  effect  immediately  after 
the  championship  battle  and  to  have  a  value  of  nothin' 
unless  the  Kid  finished  exactly  first  in  that  fracas. 
Then  I  grabbed  a  rattler  for  the  wilds  of  Maine,  where 
me  and  my  athlete  was  goin'  to  hunt  and  fish  and  fish 
and  hunt  till  a  month  before  the  big  fight. 

One  of  them  Yale  pals  of  the  Kid's  had  nothin' 
less  than  a  shootin'  box  up  there,  and  he  wouldn't  have 
it  no  other  way  but  that  me  and  Roberts  consider  it 
our  home  till  we  got  ready  to  go  into  heavy  trainin'. 
So  I  went  up  ahead  to  get  my  hands  on  a  couple  of 
guides  and  the  etc.,  with  the  Kid  due  to  join  me  in  a 
week. 

Well,  boys  and  girls,  one  fatal  night  I  was  sittin' 
in  a  easy-chair  before  a  roarin'  log  fire,  enjoyin'  the 
art  of  smokin'  and  readin'  "The  Life  of  Napoleon," 
and  thinkin'  how  many  ways  me  and  Napoleon  was 
like  each  other — and  there  comes  a  knockin'  on  my 
chamber  door,  as  Eddie  Poe,  the  Raven,  used  to  say. 

The  next  minute  I  am  enjoyin'  all  the  delightful 
sensations  of  havin'  stopped  one  of  the  Kid's  hooks 
with  my  chin,  as  a  result  of  havin'  just  read  one  of  the 
world's  greatest  short  stories,  i.  e.,  a  telegram.  Here 
it  is : 


196          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Take  next  train  New  York  Meet  me  Yale  Club  All 
plans  upset.  ROBERTS. 

Sweet  Papa! 

Well,  I  again  had  the  sensations  of  feelin'  like 
Napoleon,  only  this  time  I  felt  like  the  well-known 
army  man  must  of  felt  durin'  the  last  half  of  the  ninth 
at  Waterloo.  .  .  . 

When  I  fin'ly  get  past  the  doorkeeper  at  the  Yale 
Club,  the  Kid  is  pacin'  back  and  forth  in  the  lobby  and 
the  minute  he  flashed  me  he  dragged  me  into  a  little 
room  at  one  side.  His  twitchin'  lips  showed  me  where 
his  nerves  was. 

"Now  what  the  Gehenna's  the — "   I  begins. 

"Everything's  the  matter,"  he  butts  in,  finishin'  for 
me.  "Lower  your  voice,  can't  you?  This  is  a  gentle 
men's  club,  not  a  gymnasium !"  A  yellow  piece  of  paper 
is  shoved  under  my  eyes.  "Read  that  and  weep !"  he 
says. 

This  one  is  a  wireless,  readin'  thusly : 

Arrive  pier  49  North  River  Thursday  noon  Keep 
-from  newspapers  Booked  as  R.  H.  Carson.  .  .  J.  A. 

"Who's  J.  A.  ?"    I  says,  handin'  it  back. 

The  Kid  bends  over  and  hisses  in  my  ear,  like  a  vil 
lain  in  the  old-time  gun  operas  which  the  movies  killed 
off:  "J.  A.  is  J.  A.  Halliday— my  father!" 

"Well,  that's  fine!"  I  remarks  pleasantly.  "I'll  be 
glad  to  meet  the  old  gent.  But  what's  this  jam  you're 
in  now?" 

He  swung  around  on  me,  and  for  a  instant  I  thought 
he  was  goin'  to  forget  we  was  in  a  gentlemen's  club 
and  not  no  gymnasium. 

"You — you — you  colossal  ass!"  he  busts  out  fin'ly. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     197 

"And  I  thought  you  might  help  me.  Gad,  what  a 
mess!"  he  adds,  slappin'  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"Mess  of  what?"  I  says,  torn  between  innocence 
and  stupidity. 

"I  am  glad  we're  not  alone,"  snarls  the  Kid,  after  a 
long,  bloodthirsty  look,  "or  I'm  sure  I  would  assas 
sinate  you  in  cold  blood !  It  is  more  than  two  years 
since  I  said  good-by  to  my  father.  He  left  here  proud 
in  the  assurance  that  I  would  uphold  the  best  traditions 
of  our  family  and  make  my  name  in  the  profession 
I  had  chosen — engineering.  In  all  our  correspondence 
I  have  avoided  any  reference  to  the  fact  that  I  am  a 
pugilist,  and  from  the  amount  of  money  I've  been 
sending  him  he  obviously  thinks  I'm  a  success,  per 
haps  a  nationally  known  authority  on — " 

"But  the  newspapers  will  be  printin' — "  I  begins. 

"Bosh !"  says  the  Kid  impatiently,  "Kid  Roberts  will 
mean  nothing  to  him.  Besides,  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
more  than  glances  at  a  sporting  page.  He  had  writ 
ten  me  three  letters  to  the  effect  that  he  was  coming 
back  and,  lacking  a  forward  address,  they  were  all 
held  at  the  club  here  while  we  were  in  Europe.  I  just 
got  them  when  I  dropped  in  yesterday.  Why,  in  his 
last  letter  he  says  he's  coming  to  realize  the  culmina 
tion  of  his  greatest  hope,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Can't 
you  see  what  that  means?  He's  ready  for  his  come 
back  !  And  to  think — oh,  don't  sit  there  looking  at  me 
like  a  fool.  Can't  you  suggest  something?" 

"Why  not  come  clean  with  the  old  man  and  be  done 
with  it,  Kid?"  I  says,  after  a  minute.  "They's  worse 
things  than  bein'  a  leather  pusher.  You  made  a  name 
for  yourself,  you  got  a  bank  roll,  and  you're  level. 


198  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Why,  say,  they's  thousands  of  good  citizens  which  can 
reel  off  your  ring  record  and  measurements  and  don't 
even  know  the  plot  of  the  Constitution!" 

"You  don't  understand,"  says  the  Kid,  patiently. 
"Perhaps  your  philosophy  is  right,  but  it  would  be 
useless  to  attempt  to  convert  my  father,  and  the  caste 
he  represents,  to  it.  He  would  simply  consider  that  I 
had  dishonored  the  name  of  Halliday  and  that  his  own 
son  had  made  a  mock  of  him.  When  he  went  on  the 
rocks  through  the  perfidy  of  his  most  trusted  friends 
it  broke  his  heart,  but  not  his  spirit.  He  took  his  gruel 
like  a  gentleman  and  pinned  his  hopes  in  me.  He  is 
not  a  young  man,  and  this  second  shock  might  kill  him. 
Kane  Halliday,  prize  fighter !"  The  Kid  gives  a 
shiver.  "Gad.  I  can  see  his  face  now !"  He  gets  up 
and  takes  a  turn  around  the  room. 

"Look  here,"  I  says,  gettin'  up  myself.  "For  two 
years  you've  allowed  your  old  man  to  think  you  was 
a  dude  when  it  come  to  civilly  engineerin'.  Now,  then, 
whether  you're  a  fighter  or  a  plumber,  the  fact  that 
you  ain't  what  you  claimed  to  be  is  what's  goin'  to  hit 
the  old  man,  ain't  it?  Sure!  Therefore  the  thing 
is  to  make  it  look  like  you  was  a  beaucoup  civil  engi 
neer  till  you  win  the  title.  Then  you  can  come  clean, 
all  will  be  forgiven,  and  no  harm  done !  Get  me  ?" 

"But  if—"  says  the  Kid  wildly. 

"Shut  up,"  I  says.  "This  joint's  a  gentlemen's  club 
and  not  no  gymnasium !  Now  what  we'll  do  is  to  hire 
a  office  somewheres.  I  can  fix  that  up  with  any  one 
of  the  Jersey  promoters  and  we'll  paint  your  name  on 
the  door,  plaster  the  place  with  maps  and  whatever  a 
civil  engineer  works  with.  Fine!  You  show  that  to 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     199 

father  and  we  got  that  all  jake.  When  the  time  comes 
to  start  trainin'  for  the  big  fight,  you  got  a  heavy  job 
on  out  of  town,  get  me?  Away  we  go.  You  knock 
the  champ  for  a  row  of  milk  cans,  come  back,  show 
the  old  man  your  movie  and  vaudeville  contracts  which 
runs  over  $175,000  for  next  year;  tell  him  why  you 
didn't  confess  all  before,  that  you  never  fought  under 
your  real  name,  anyways,  so  that  part's  all  right,  and 
if  he  don't  kiss  and  make  up — 

But  the  Kid  is  dancin'  around  and  huggin'  me  till 
the  bell  hops  is  wonderin'  which  one  of  them  cheated 
and  sold  him  a  pint. 

"Enough,  enough!"  he  cackles.  "Good  Lord,  man, 
give  me  credit  for  some  imagination.  That's  my  one 
chance,  an  appeal  to  dad's  sense  of  humor — and  he 
has  one.  Besides,  your  stunt  probably  isn't  half  as 
despicable  as  it  sounds.  After  all,  it's  for  dad,  even 
if  we  are  deceivin'  him,  and  in  the  end  I'll  tell  him  the 
whole  business,  of  course." 

"Say,"  I  says,  "I  bet  if  your  father  ever  seen  you 
mixin'  it  up  he'd  be  yellin'  his  head  off  and  become  a 
fight  bug  for  life !  Them  dignified  guys  is  all  alike. 
I  know  a  supreme  court  judge  which  got  thro  wed  out 
of  a  movie  theatre  for  gettin'  the  hystericals  over 
Chaplin.  C'mon,  we  got  to  work  fast.  Call  up  Miss 
Brewster  and  the  Senator  and  wise  'em  up,  so's  they 
don't  innocently  tip  off  your  father  that  we're  a  couple 
of  first-class  liars !" 

Like  wire  walkin',  this  here  proved  easier  said  than 
done.  At  the  first  blush,  the  delicious  Dolores  says 
they  is  nothin'  stirrin'  on  stallin'  old  man  Halliday  as 
far  as  she  is  concerned;  what  kind  of  a  person  would 


200  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

he  think  she  was,  etc.,  etc.,  and  etc.  Well,  I  devoted 
my  talents  to  the  Senator  which  had  once  told  me  to 
look  him  up  any  time  he  could  do  anything  for  me. 
The  proposition  landed  sock  on  his  funny  bone,  and  be 
tween  us  we  fin'ly  captured  Dolores.  Dave  Martin,  a 
Newark  fight  promoter,  rents  us  his  office  for  a  spell 
on  the  promise  that  we  will  box  our  first  exhibition 
at  his  club  if  we  trim  the  champ.  We  take  all  the  stills 
of  great  and  near  great  pugs  off  the  walls  and  replace 
'em  with  a  entirely  different  kind  of  maps,  blue  prints, 
and  stacks  of  novels  on  the  gift  of  civil  engineerin'.  A 
gay  young  stenog  is  hired  and  put  to  work  copyin' 
off  the  City  Directory,  after  we  have  with  some  dif 
ficulty  convinced  her  that  we  ain't  crazy  or  that  she 
ain't  bein'  led  into  a  trap.  Then  we  get  "Kane  Halli- 
day,  Civil  Engineer,"  painted  on  the  door,  the  Kid 
goes  over  to  meet  his  dad,  and  I  sit  down  in  the  office 
and  wish  us  both  luck. 

After  a  while  the  Kid  reaches  me  via  phone  and 
says  father  has  arrove  lookin'  like  two  $500,000  bills, 
and  he  is  goin'  to  take  him  to  dinner  at  the  Ritz.  Dave 
Martin  comes  up  later  to  get  some  papers  from  his  safe 
and  says  they  will  be  a  openin'  pretty  soon  down  in  his 
temporary  office  for  a  bright  young  stud-poker  player, 
so  I  fled  the  joint  myself.  Before  leavin'  I  told  the 
dazed  stenog  to  be  sure  and  stay  till  5  p.  m.,  as  I  ex 
pected  President  Wilson,  Caruso,  Ty  Cobb,  Eva  Tan- 
guay,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  for  a  conference. 

The  followin'  day  Kid  Roberts  brings  his  male  par 
ent  over  to  Newark.  The  big,  upstandin',  dignified  old 
boy  was  very  sweet  to  me  and  I  fell  for  him  right 
away.  A  close-up  of  him  and  you  could  see  where  the 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     201 

Kid  got  not  only  his  heft  but  his  class.  He  looks 
around  the  office  approvin'ly,  nods  pleasantly  to  the 
charmin'  stenog  which  is  typin'  seven  letters  I  have 
dictated  to  myself,  squats  in  a  comfortable  chair  near 
a  window  and  there  he  camps  all  through  one  of  the 
most  nerve-rackin'  mornin's  I  have  ever  put  in  any 
wheres  ! 

They  was  a  million  pugs  and  their  managers  which 
had  to  be  shooed  away  and  shut  up  without  gettin' 
the  old  guy  suspicious.  Fin'ly  at  noon  we  had  a  ex 
cuse  to  go  to  lunch  and  the  Kid  seen  that  his  dear  old 
dad  didn't  come  back  afterward. 

At  last  comes  the  time  when  we  have  to  start  West 
to  begin  trainin'  for  the  big  fight  as  per  our  contract. 
The  Kid  tells  the  old  man  at  a  dinner  up  at  the  Sena 
tor's  palace  one  night  that  "business"  will  call  him  out 
of  town  for  about  a  month.  He  says  that  this  job's 
the  biggest  one  he's  undertaken  yet  and  that  if  he  puts 
it  through  successfully  he'll  be  fixed  for  life,  all  of 
which  is  true.  Then,  he  adds  with  a  happy  smile, 
Dolores  is  goin'  to  be  his  sweet  young  bride. 

"Provided,"  smiles  Dolores,  with  a  breath-takin' 
blush,  whilst  the  Senator  and  the  Kid's  old  man  is 
slappin'  each  other  on  the  back — "provided  you  give  up 
your  present — ah — profession,  Kane !" 

The  Kid  begins  to  choke  over  his  oysters,  and  his 
old  gent  looks  up  kinda  puzzled. 

"And  why,  Miss  Brewster?"  he  says.  "Why  should 
Kane  give  up  the  profession  of  engineering?  Surely 
it  is  an  honorable  one  and  he's  been  tremendously  suc 
cessful  at  it,  hasn't  he?" 


202  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Warn !    Dolores  win  the  celluloid  fireman's  hat,  hey  ? 

She  flames  red  to  her  shoulder  blades,  stalls  for  a 
minute  by  takin'  a  drink  of  water,  and  then  gamely 
faces  the  Kid's  father  with  a  innocent  smile.  "Why — 
why,  I  suppose  you'll  think  me  foolish,  Mister  Halli- 
day,"  she  stammers,  fakin'  it  wonderfully.  "But — er — 
engineering  will  keep  Kane  away  from  home  so  much 
that—" 

It  was  the  Kid's  dad  himself  which  come  to  her 
rescue  with  a  boomin'  laugh  and  a  wink  to  the  Sena 
tor,  and  that  baby  grabbed  the  chance  to  switch  the 
talk  to  the  Japanese  question.  So  that  was  all  settled ! 

We  caught  a  midnight  rattler  that  night,  leavin'  the 
Kid's  old  man  with  the  Senator  and  Dolores  where 
he  was  to  stay  as  their  guest  till  we  come  back. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  Kid  Roberts  was 
to  go  to  the  post  for  the  world's  heavyweight  cham 
pionship,  I  was  walkin'  down  the  main  street  of  the 
burg  the  battle  was  staged  in  on  my  ways  to  meet 
Jimmy  Brandt,  which  promoted  the  battle,  for  a  final 
conference.  The  town  was  loaded  to  the  guards  with 
fight  fans  from  all  over  the  Land  of  the  Free,  and 
every  incomin'  train  was  dumpin'  off  hundreds  more, 
which  battled  with  each  other  to  give  the  speculators 
anywheres  from  a  hundred  berries  up  for  seats  within 
telephone  distance  of  the  ring.  They  was  not  as  much 
profit  for  the  speculators  in  this  as  you'd  think,  as  the 
boys  was  all  workin'  for  the  promoter  on  a  straight 
salary.  The  Kid  was  takin'  a  nap  at  our  camp  guarded 
by  no  less  than  Dynamite  Jackson,  which  I'd  brung 
on  at  beaucoup  expense  to  work  out  with  the  Kid 
durin'  the  last  two  weeks  before  the  mill.  The  boy  had 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     203 

used  up  all  the  cheaper  help  long  before.  Passin'  the 
lobby  of  the  hotel  on  my  ways  back,  I'm  edging  through 
the  jam  when  out  of  a  taxi  piles  a  couple  of  guys  which 
has  a  familiar  look.  Their  backs  is  to  me,  but  yet 
they's  somethin'  about  the  way  one  of  'em  carries  him 
self  that  sets  me  thinkin':  I  know  this  guy,  who  is  he? 
And  then  as  the  bell  hops  run  out  for  their  suit  cases, 
this  bird  turns  around  and  I  catch  a  good  square  view 
of  his  face. 

Sweet  Mamma — it  was  Kid  Roberts'  old  man! 

At  the  risk  of  'em  seein'  me,  I  stopped  dead  not 
three  feet  away  and  took  a  good  long  look.  When  the 
other  guy  started  up  the  steps,  the  thing  was  cinched. 
He  was  Senator  Brewster. 

I  staggered  up  against  a  convenient  lamp  post  and 
I'd  of  been  there  yet,  I  guess,  if  a  copper  hadn't  come 
along  and  nudged  me  with  his  stick.  "Take  'at  booze 
away  from  here,"  he  says.  "They're  watchin'  me 
pretty  clost !" 

Still  in  a  trance,  I  sidled  into  a  taxi  and  beat  it  for 
the  camp.  Of  course,  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
old  boy  had  been  out  to  see  Kid  Roberts  and  prob'ly 
made  a  scene  and  the  like,  and  I  could  imagine  what 
shape  the  Kid  was  in  by  now.  Think  of  it,  to  have  a 
thing  like  this  happen  on  the  very  brinks  of  a  cham 
pionship  battle! 

Dynamite  Jackson  is  on  guard  outside  the  room 
where  the  Kid's  sleepin',  just  like  I'd  left  him.  He 
greets  me  with  a  dazzlin',  gold-toothed  grin.  "Can  'at 
white  boy  fight  like  he  kin  sleep,"  remarks  Dynamite, 
noddin'  to  the  door,  "us  handles  a  champeen  by  to 
night  !" 


204          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"You  big  black  tramp!"  I  snarls.  "What  d'ye 
mean  by  lettin'  anybody  in  to  see  the  Kid  this  after 
noon?  Didn't  I  tell  you — " 

"How  come?"  butts  in  Dynamite,  losin'  his  grin. 
"Ain't  nobody  been  botherin'  around  heah,  'ceptin' 
yo'  ownseff.  Like  y'all  demands,  I  been  settin'  heah 
doin'  a  piece  of  readin',  and  they  ain't  been  as  much 
as  a  strange  breeze  come  through  'at  doah !" 

The  "piece  of  readin'  "  Dynamite  meant  was  a  ac 
count  of  his  seven-round  battle  with  Kid  Roberts, 
clipped  from  a  New  York  paper.  He'd  haul  that 
clippin'  out  and  grin  over  it  fifty  times  a  day. 

Well,  Dynamite  convinced  me  that  the  Kid's  old 
man  hadn't  paid  his  party  call  yet  and  once  again  I 
was  able  to  resume  breathin'.  I  never  let  the  Kid 
know  they  was  a  thing  out  of  the  way,  though  he 
laughed  his  head  off  when  I  posted  a  guard  at  every 
entrance  to  the  camp  and  even  barred  the  newspaper 
bunch  till  we  entered  the  ring  that  night. 

The  ring  was  pitched  in  a  ball  park,  but  it  was  sum 
mer,  and  the  air  was  just  right.  When  we  crawled 
through  the  ropes  and  looked  out  over  that  roarin' 
ocean  of  bobbin'  faces,  it  seemed  to  me  like  everybody 
in  the  world  had  turned  out  to  see  this  scrap.  Given 
a  guess,  I'd  of  said  they  was  twenty-eight  million  guys 
there,  but  the  official  attendance  was  a  scant  45,000. 
The  movie  lights  overhead  made  the  ring  stand  out  in 
the  surroundin'  gloom  as  bright  as  a  sunny  day  and 
blinded  us  till  we  got  used  to  it.  The  Kid  was  cool 
and  unsmilin',  showin'  nerves  only  by  the  shufflin'  back 
and  forth  of  his  feet  as  he  sat  on  his  stool  after  bowin' 
to  a  two-minute  ovation  from  the  mob.  He  sat  with 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     205 

his  eyes  fastened  on  a  spot  on  the  floor  and  looked 
neither  to  the  right  or  left  whilst  Dynamite  and  Knock 
out  Burns  rinsed  his  mouth  and  massaged  him,  and  I 
repeated  my  instructions.  I  told  him  to  go  after  the 
champ  from  the  bell,  carry  in'  the  battle  to  him  and 
keepin'  him  movin'  too  fast  to  set.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  heard  me  or  not.  He  kept  mutterin' 
thank  God  his  father  couldn't  see  the  next  five  minutes. 
I  turned  away  my  head  and  says  nothin'. 

A  sudden,  deafenin'  din  from  the  crowd  told  us 
the  champ  was  on  his  way  down  the  aisle,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  he  stepped  through  on  the  other  side,  waved  a 
bandaged  paw  at  the  frantic  mob,  and  walked  over  to 
our  corner.  I  felt  the  Kid's  muscles  tense  under  my 
hand,  but  he  didn't  move  or  look  up.  The  champ 
reaches  down  and  examines  the  Kid's  bandages,  care 
fully  and  deliberately,  but  failed  to  get  a  rise  out  of 
him.  I  got  one  out  of  the  champ,  though. 

'  You  can  shake  hands  now  if  you  want  to,"  I  says 
to  him.  "It'll  be  the  last  chance!  We  want  to  come 
out  fightin'  with  the  bell,  O.  K.  ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  he  stopped  grinnin' 
at  his  friends  and  walked  over  to  his  corner  after 
that. 

The  introductions  and  posin'  for  the  newspaper  and 
movie  stills  was  soon  over,  and  then  with  a  final  roar 
the  mob  drawed  its  breath  and  settled  back,  the  tele 
graph  instruments  beatin'  a  steady  tattoo.  I  just  got 
down  under  the  ropes  with  the  bell. 

The  Kid  was  across  the  ring  like  a  panther  and  on 
top  of  his  man  before  the  champ  was  clear  of  his 


206          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

corner.  They  sparred  cautiously  for  half  a  second, 
and  then  the  Kid  was  short  with  a  right  to  the  head, 
the  champ  counterin'  swiftly  with  a  right  and  left  to 
the  body  that  brought  a  yell  from  the  mob  and  a 
nervous  grin  from  the  Kid.  The  champ  then  tried 
to  end  matters  with  a  punch  and  swung  a  vicious  right 
for  the  jaw,  but  Roberts  was  gettin'  cooler  now  and 
easily  blocked  it,  puttin*  both  hands  to  the  face  and 
dancin'  lightly  away  before  the  champ  could  set  for  a 
return.  The  customers  begin  yellin'  for  action,  and 
the  Kid  obliged  by  drivin'  the  champ  to  the  ropes  with 
a  volley  of  lefts  and  rights  to  the  head  that  made  the 
title  holder  dive  into  a  clinch,  where  he  hung  on  till  the 
crowd  booed  him  and  the  referee  must  of  broke  his 
arms  tearin'  'em  apart. 

When  they  broke,  the  champ  was  bleedin'  freely 
from  a  cut  over  his  right  eye  and  the  Kid  immediately 
made  that  the  target  for  a  beautiful  left  jab.  The 
champion  was  mad  now  and  took  all  kinds  of  chances 
to  land  a  haymaker,  but  the  Kid  kept  him  off  with  his 
left,  occasionally  rippin'  in  that  terrible  right  to  the 
heart. 

A  second  before  the  bell,  however,  the  champ  un 
corked  a  right  swing  that  landed  flush  on  the  Kid's 
jaw.  It  drove  Roberts  hard  against  the  ropes,  and  on 
the  rebound  he  fell  into  a  wicked  left  to  the  body  that 
dropped  him  to  his  knees.  The  crowd  stood  up,  yellin' 
wildly,  thinkin'  the  thing  was  over,  but  the  Kid  was 
up  at  "five,"  bangin'  away  with  both  hands  and  drivin' 
the  astonished  champ  across  the  ring.  The  bell  found 
them  clinched  in  a  neutral  corner  and  Roberts  run  to 
his  stool  grinnin'  and  unmarked  outside  of  a  slight 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     207 

swellin'  on  his  jaw.  The  champ  looked  very  tired,  and 
durin'  the  rest  the  odds  switched  from  eight  to  rive, 
with  the  champ  favorite,  to  even  money. 

The  champion  come  out  for  the  second  round  to  get 
it  over  with,  and  after  pumpin'  three  stiff  lefts  to  the 
face  without  a  return,  shifted  his  attack  to  the  body, 
which  begin  to  show  big  red  blotches  over  the  Kid's 
bum  rib.  Roberts  fin'ly  untracked  himself  and  sent  the 
champ  staggerin'  back  with  a  wicked  right  uppercut, 
followin'  that  with  a  left  to  the  mouth  that  showered 
the  champ's  neck  and  shoulders  with  gore.  The  mob 
kept  up  a  continual  din  that  must  of  been  heard  in 
Egypt.  Crazy  with  rage,  the  champ  pumped  in  two 
rights  that  looked  pretty  low,  and  the  referee  cautioned 
him,  but  the  Kid  waved  the  official  away  and  drove  a 
terrific  right  to  the  champ's  ribs  and  nearly  knocked 
him  through  the  ropes.  It  looked  like  the  end,  and  the 
Kid  drove  the  mob  into  several  higher  degrees  of  in 
sanity  by  crashin'  the  champ  to  the  canvas  with  a  per 
fectly  timed  right  hook  to  the  jaw.  He  took  "nine" 
and  was  in  a  bad  way  when  he  floundered  to  his  feet  and 
managed  to  clinch  right  in  our  corner. 

Then  come  the  most  sensational  thing  I  ever  seen 
at  a  prize  fight — the  thing  the  newspapers  give  more 
space  to  than  they  did  the  fight !  The  champ  has  his 
back  to  me  and  the  Kid  is  lookin'  out  at  the  crowd  over 
his  shoulder,  tryin'  to  work  loose  and  finish  his  man. 
Suddenly  his  face  goes  a  dull  white,  and  his  eyes  takes 
on  a  wild  stare.  His  arms  slowly  slides  down  the 
champ's  quiverin'  back  and  he  shivers,  like  they  was  a 
sudden  draft.  I  jumped  on  the  stool  and  looked  into 
the  crowd,  followin'  his  own  startled  gaze,  and  I  seen 


208  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

his  father,  Dolores,  and  Senator  Brewster  sittin'  in  a 
ring-side  box ! 

Even  the  newspaper  guys  is  excited  now,  and  the 
mob  is  jumpin'  up  and  down  yellin'  "Fake!"  when  the 
champ  slides  away,  deliberately  measures  the  hyp 
notized  Kid,  and  floors  him  with  a  right  swing.  The 
round  had  fifteen  seconds  to  go,  and  I  could  of  cheer 
fully  murdered  the  Kid's  old  man  then  and  there  and 
taken  the  "chair"  with  pleasure!  Gypped  out  of  a 
world's  championship !  Over  the  moanin'  of  Dynamite 
Jackson  I  hear  "nine!"  from  the  referee  and  see  the 
Kid  strugglin'  to  his  feet,  reelin'  about  like  a  guy  full 
of  hooch.  The  sneerin'  champ  straightens  him  up  with 
a  left  jab  and  then  drops  him  again  with  another 
crashin'  right.  In  the  middle  of  the  count  which 
would  of  surely  been  the  wind-up,  the  blessed  bell 
rung. 

We  had  to  half  carry  the  Kid  to  his  chair,  where  he 
slumped  over  in  a  heap,  his  head  saggin'  forward  on 
his  neck  like  the  same  was  broke.  The  referee  walks 
over,  takes  a  look,  and  gazes  at  me  inquirin'ly.  Before 
I  can  say  anything,  somebody  grabs  me  by  the  shoulders 
and  shoves  me  to  one  side,  I  hear  familiar  voices  and 
see  Senator  Brewster  and  the  Kid's  old  man,  their 
blazin'  white  shirt  fronts  spattered  with  blood  and  wa 
ter  from  the  sponge  Dynamite  is  wavin'  at  'em, 
climbin'  through  the  ropes.  Like  a  flash,  I  sees  a  chance 
in  a  million  to  cop,  so  I  shoved  the  Kid's  dumbfounded 
handlers  out  of  the  ring.  The  old  man  is  slappin'  the 
Kid's  face  to  bring  him  to.  The  Senator  has  emptied 
the  water  bucket  over  him  and  is  now  shovin'  the  am 
monia  bottle  under  his  nose. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     209 

"Come  on,  son!"  the  old  man's  half  shoutin',  half 
cryin'.  "It  was  my  fault,  I  should  not  have  come  here, 
I  know.  But,  oh,  my  boy,  I  wanted  to  see  you  win. 
Come  on,  it's  dad — can  you  hear  me?  It's  dad,  Kane 
boy — go  on  and  kill  that  fellow !  Son — son — wake 
up!" 

The  Kid's  glazed  eyes  began  to  clear,  and  he  sees 
his  old  man.  Senator  Brewster,  a  sight  for  the  movies, 
is  rubbin'  him  with  alcohol,  and  tears,  get  that,  tears, 
is  streamin'  down  his  face.  The  Kid  shudders  and  be 
gins  straightenin'  up.  "Dad,"  he  says,  "I — " 

"Don't  talk !"  pants  the  old  man,  rubbin'  his  wrists. 
"I'll  explain  everything  later.  I  want  to  see  you  a 
champion!  Come  on,  son — see,  your  color's  coming 
back  now.  Go  out  and  win !  Remember  in  that  Har 
vard  game  when  you  were  knocked  out  in  the  first  few 
minutes  of  play  and  insisted  on  staying  and — oh,  son, 
come  on — " 

"Why,  of  course!"  smiles  the  Kid,  dazedly.  "I 
know  this  is  all  a  nightmare,  but  even  in  a  dream  I  can 
whip  this  fellow !  I— 

"You  got  eight  seconds  to  get  your  man  off 
his  stool !"  grunts  the  referee.  "Wanna  throw  it 
up?" 

"Ring  the  chimes,"  barks  the  Kid,  "I'll  be  there!" 
He  turns  to  his  old  man :  "Dad,  I  would  never  have  lied 
to  you,  but — " 

"Who's  them  old  guys?"  says  a  newspaper  bird  to 
another  one  which  has  left  his  telegraph  operator  and 
is  in  our  corner,  drinkin'  in  every  word. 

"Well,"  says  the  other  guy,  grinnin',  "I'll  be  on  the 
street  with  it  first  anyhow,  so  I  don't  mind  tellin* 


210  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

you.  One  of  'em's  Senator  Brewster  of  New  York 
and  the  other's  old  J.  A.  Halliday — Kid  Roberts' 
father — and  they're  handlin'  him,  that's  all !" 

"Wow !"  yells  the  first  guy,  "I  don't  give  a  damn 
who  wins  this  scrap.  Sweet  Cookie — what  a  story!" 

The  bell  clangs,  and  I  shove  the  Senator  and  the 
Kid's  old  man  out  of  the  ring  just  in  time.  The  cham 
pion's  handlers  is  yellin'  over  the  ropes  to  the  referee 
and  pointin'  to  our  corner,  but  he  don't  pay  no  atten 
tion  to  'em.  The  champ  advanced  smilin'ly,  when  a 
human  cyclone  struck  him  in  mid  ring.  It  was  the  first 
punch  that  he  didn't  expect  that  licked  him,  because  the 
Kid  put  everything  he  had  left  in  that — a  right  swing 
to  the  jaw  that  dumped  the  champ  with  a  crash  that 
sent  up  showers  of  dust  from  underneath  the  padded 
canvas.  He  pulled  himself  up  by  the  ropes  at  "eight," 
shakin'  his  head  to  clear  it  and  pawin'  weakly  at  the 
dancin'  Kid  in  front  of  him. 

"Take  your  time,  Kid !"  I  bellered,  and  the  boy 
heard  me  over  the  roar  of  the  crowd,  for  he  nodded 
and  coolly  measured  the  totterin'  champ  with  a  light 
left  before  floorin'  him  again  with  a  right  to  the  but 
ton.  Again  the  champ  floundered  to  his  feet — they 
called  him  yellah  afterward,  but  I  seen  the  fight ! — and 
again  the  fast  tirin'  Kid  dropped  him,  this  time  usin' 
both  hands  for  the  job. 

The  champ  got  to  his  knees,  slid  back,  and  fin'ly  got 
up  at  "nine,"  and  now  the  Kid  stepped  back  and  hol 
lered  to  the  beaten  champ's  seconds  to  throw  in  the 
sponge  and  save  their  man  from  further  punishment. 
They  hesitated  and,  with  a  dyin'  effort,  the  champ 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     211 

swung  for  the  Kid's  unprotected  face,  missed  and 
sprawled  full  length  on  the  mat,  face  down. 

As  he  started  to  drag  himself  to  his  feet,  a  pitiful 
sight,  the  towel  came  hurtlin'  into  the  ring  from  the 
other  side,  and  Kid  Roberts  was  heavyweight  cham 
pion  of  the  world ! 

The  Kid's  old  man  was  talkin'  behind  the  barred 
doors  of  the  dressin'  room,  whilst  the  mob  pounded 
outside. 

"When  I  went  to  South  America,  son,"  he  says,  "I 
arranged  with  the  Pinkerton  agency  to  keep  tabs  on 
you.  I  knew  the  pitfalls  and  temptations  that  faced 
you  when — when  I  went  bankrupt  and  was  forced  to 
set  you  loose  on  your  own.  They've  been  sending  me 
press  clippings  about  you  almost  since  I  went  away — 
why,  Kane,  the  object  of  my  trip  here  was  to  see  you 
win  the  championship !  When  you  did  not  immediately 
enlighten  me,  I  decided  to  let  you  think  I  was  fooled 
so  that  you  could  work  out  your  problem  in  your  own 
way.  I—" 

"Then,"  gasps  the  Kid,  "I've  been  writing  to  you 
that — a — and  you  have  known  I  was  a  prize  fighter 
since — " 

"Since  your  first  professional  fight,  son,  two 
years  ago,"  smiles  the  old  man,  pattin'  his  shoulder. 
"Ahem!"  he  says,  his  eyes  twinklin',  "J.  A.  Halliday, 
father  of  the  world's  heavyweight  champion — well, 
that's  something!" 


ROUND  NINE 


LATELY  you'll  find  a  lot  of  women  at  prize  fights. 
Some  of  'em  covers  their  white  faces  with  their  hands 
and  devotes  themselves  to  wishin'  it  was  over,  and  some 
of  'em  stamps  their  feet  on  the  floor  as  excited  as  the 
hoarsely  bellerin'  stevedore  on  one  side  of  'em  and  the 
wheezin'  corporation  lawyer  on  the  other,  and  hollers 
shrilly :  "Knock  him  out !  Knock  him  out !" 

I  ain't  got  the  slightest  intention  of  gettin'  mixed 
up  in  no  argument  as  to  whether  it's  proper  or  no  for 
a  member  of  the  adjoinin'  sex  to  be  a  part  of  the 
yowlin',  cussin'  mob  which  watches  one  guy  endeavor 
to  knock  another  one  stiff  for  pennies.  In  the  first 
place,  anything  any  Jane  does  is  O.  K.  with  me.  In  the 
second  place,  I  know  nothin'  what  the  so  ever  about  the 
girls  except  I  am  practically  certain  that  if  it  wasn't 
for  them  we'd  all  be  throwin'  coconuts  at  each  other 
in  the  tops  of  the  trees  to-day.  But  to  get  back  to  the 
original  subject,  the  bloodiest  prize  fight  I  ever  seen 
since  I  been  pilotin'  leather  pushers  was  deliberately 
staged  by  a  woman,  because  she  hated  the  game. 
Sounds  odd,  hey?  Well,  listen! 

After  Kid  Roberts,  with  me  at  the  wheel,  had  win 
the  world's  heavyweight  title,  we  tell  the  ambitious 

212 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     213 

young  men  which  is  clamorin'  for  first  punch  at  the 
new  monarch  of  the  maulers  that  we  have  declared  a 
armistice  for  a  year  at  the  smallest  as  far  as  vulgar 
fistycuffs  is  concerned.  We  have  a  movie  agreement 
which  would  make  the  charmin'  Mrs.  Fairbanks  raise 
her  equally  charmin'  eyebrows  and  a  circus  contract 
runnin'  into  as  beautiful  figures  as  Ziegfeld  ever  seen. 
The  circus  portfolio  comes  first  and  calls  for  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  Kid  twice  the  day  durin'  a  tour  of  the 
country.  He's  down  on  the  menu  to  punch  the  bag, 
pull  the  weights,  skip  rope,  shadow-box  and  step  a 
couple  of  frames  with  his  sparrin'  partners.  The  big 
wow  at  the  finish  is  a  offer  to  take  on  any  man,  woman, 
or  child  in  the  audience  for  three  rounds. 

At  the  time  this  round  opens,  Dolores  had  gone  to 
Washington  with  her  father,  which  had  been  suddenly 
called  there  as  the  Senate  had  decided  to  begin  playin' 
practical  jokes  on  the  President  again.  Me  and  Kid 
Roberts  with  our  kingly  retinue  was  flittin'  through  the 
train-stops-on-signal-only  burgs,  knockin'  the  natives 
cold  with  our  forty-minute  demonstration  that  self- 
defense  is  not  only  a  plea,  but  a  art. 

It  was  at  a  one-night  stand  in  Chickasha,  Oklahoma, 
that  one  Joe  Kenny — the  hero  or  villain  of  this  yarn, 
whichever  you  like — first  took  a  runnin'  jump  and  dove 
into  the  spotlight.  Followin'  the  "amazin'ly  agile  ac 
robats"  and  the  "extryordinarily  educated  elephants," 
the  cheaper  help  was  chased  out  of  the  arena,  givin' 
Kid  Roberts  the  place  to  himself.  In  the  middle  one 
of  the  three  big  circles  a  regulation  ring  was  swiftly 
throwed  together  before  the  eager  eyes  of  the  awed 
customers,  the  tent  lights  was  all  dimmed,  and  a  blindin' 


214          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

calcium  was  throwed  on  said  ring.  Then  a  special  an 
nouncer  begin  a  long  debate  with  himself  which  was 
mostly  blah  blah,  and  wound  up  with :  ".  .  .  and  now, 
ladees  and  gent-tel-men,  I  have  the  great  pleasure  of 
intreeducin'  to  you  one  and  all  the  most  scientific, 
polished,  gamest,  and  hardest  hittin'  exponent  of  the 
manly  art  of  self-defense  that  the  American  prize  ring 
has  ever  preeduced  [the  cheerin'  usually  begin  about 
here] — the  world's  champeen  heavyweight  boxer,  KID 
ROBERTS  !" 

Whilst  the  band  played  "Dixie"  on  account  of  the 
Kid  bein'  a  born  New  Yorker,  and  the  mob  went  hys 
terical  by  a  large  majority,  Roberts,  caparisoned  in  a 
dazzlin'  dress  suit,  circled  the  arena  twice  standin'  up 
in  the  back  of  a  auto  liftin'  his  hat  and  bowin'  this  way 
and  that. 

Followin'  a  exhibition  of  trainin'  stunts  which  was 
eat  up  by  the  natives,  the  Kid  went  two  snappy  rounds 
apiece  with  his  sparrin'  partners,  a  good  dinge  heavy 
correctly  called  Dynamite  Jackson  and  Knockout  Burns, 
a  tough  old  war  horse.  Then  whilst  the  mob,  which 
has  just  seen  enough  to  set  'em  deleerious,  is  howlin' 
their  heads  off,  the  announcer  holds  up  both  hands  for 
silence,  grabs  up  his  megaphone,  and  tells  the  world 
that  Kid  Roberts  will  box  three  rounds  with  anybody 
in  the  tent  outside  of  the  elephants,  usin'  ten-ounce 
gloves,  which  is  the  same  as  pillows,  to  four-ounce 
mitts  for  his  darin'  opponent.  In  his  hand  the  an 
nouncer  waves  a  little  pink  slip  of  paper. 

"Ladees  and  gent-tel-men!"  he  says.  "It  has  been 
the  custom  in  the  past,  when  champeens  towered  the 
country  takin'  on  all  comers,  to  offer  a  reward  of  some 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     215 

sum  like  a  hundred  dollars  to  any  man  which  could 
stand  before  the  title  holder  for  three  or  four  rounds. 
The  results  of  this  was  that  a  lot  of  young  and  inex 
perienced  boys  got  their  heads  beat  off  and  took  crool 
and  unusual  punishment  try  in'  to  stay  on  their  feet 
so's  in  the  order  to  git  that  jack.  I  want  to  say  to  you, 
one  and  all,  this  evenin',  folks,  that  Kid  Roberts  is  not 
that  kind  of  a  champeen.  He's  beneath  takin'  the  ad 
vantage  of  his  soopeerior  strennth  and  skill.  But  on 
the  behalf  of  the  management  I  hereby  show  you  a 
certeyfied  check  for  five  thousand  dollars,  which  will 
be  presented  to  any  man  in  this  audience  which  can 
knock  Kid  Roberts  off  his  feet  inside  of  three  rounds!" 

This  always  goaled  the  mob. 

Naturally  we  had  a  couple  of  huskies  planted  in  the 
attendance  which  volunteered  when  the  young  men  was 
coy  about  takin'  a  chance  of  stoppin'  the  Kid's  right 
with  their  chin.  But  now  and  then  that  five-thousand- 
buck  offer  caused  some  rustic  which  would  of  dove  off 
Washington's  monument  into  a  bucket  of  water  for  a 
five-dollar  note  to  come  to  the  fore. 

Such,  gentle  readers,  was  the  case  that  night  in 
Chickasha. 

The  announcer  had  hardly  finished  when  they  is  a 
slight  commotion  in  one  of  the  back  rows  and  a  growin' 
rumble  of  cheers  from  the  crowd.  Up  the  aisle  comes 
a  human  mountain  which  could  prob'ly  of  gazed  over 
the  top  of  Eiffel's  Tower  without  standin'  on  his  toes, 
and  who  was  likewise  as  delicate  and  sickly  lookin'  as 
the  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  Under  a  mop  of  black  hair,  cut 
high  and  round  in  the  rear,  his  weather-beaten,  sharply 


216  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

cut  features  wasn't  bad  looking  in  a  hick  way.  I'd 
guess  his  age  as  thirty-five,  too  old  by  about  fifteen 
years  to  take  up  box  fightin'  as  a  trade.  Boxin',  boys 
and  girls,  is  strictly  a  young  man's  game. 

"Woof  !"  grins  Dynamite  Jackson  to  the  Kid.  "Sure 
is  a  tough  baby  comin'  to  visit  us,  boss.  Looks  like 
to  me  you're  gonna  be  compelled  to  smack  'at  boy 
down !" 

It  looked  like  to  me,  too,  when  this  guy  puts  one 
mighty  paw  on  the  top  rope,  vaults  into  the  ring  with 
a  thump  that  sent  up  clouds  of  dust  from  the  canvas 
and  begins  removin'  his  coat  and  collar.  The  mob  is 
with  him  to  a  man,  and  he's  blushin'  furiously,  but 
game,  as  he  begins  rollin'  up  his  sleeves  without  givin' 
the  smilin'  Kid  as  much  as  a  look.  Fin'ly  he  bends 
down  and  ties  up  a  loose  shoe  lace,  takes  a  couple  of 
reefs  in  his  belt,  and  faces  us. 

"Le's  go!"  he  snarls  at  the  Kid,  and  puts  up  his 
hands. 

Whilst  the  crowd  is  still  shriekin'  I  grabbed  this 
dumb-bell's  arm  with  both  hands  and  explained  to  him 
that  whilst  his  spirit  was  O.  K.,  his  costume  was  a  trifle 
out  of  order  for  a  boxin'  bout,  and  that  if  he'd  step 
into  the  dressin'  room  with  the  handlers  everything 
would  be  jake.  At  this  the  man  mountain  balks.  He 
claims  that  nothin'  in  the  wide,  wide  world  will  induce 
him  to  remove  his  citizen's  clothes  and  reveal  his  manly 
form  to  the  multitude  in  a  brief  pair  of  trunks,  as  he 
is  on  hand  to  fight — not  to  go  swimmin'.  He's  also 
got  a  kick  to  register  with  the  regard  to  wearin'  gloves, 
on  the  grounds  that  nobody  could  hurt  each  other  with 
their  hands  all  cushioned  up,  and  he  sneerin'ly  inquires 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     217 

if  the  Kid  is  afraid  of  him.  This  cuckoo  was  a  bit 
rough,  hey? 

Well,  we  fin'ly  talked  him  into  strippin'  to  ring  togs 
after  I  have  convinced  him  that  Kid  Roberts  has  showed 
no  signs  of  tryin'  to  sneak  out  of  town  since  lookin' 
him  over,  and  that  he'd  be  pleasantly  surprised  in  a 
few  minutes  at  the  damage  it  was  possible  to  do  with 
a  pair  of  boxin'  gloves  if  they  was  properly  applied. 

The  fifteen  minutes  or  so  which  this  bimbo  devoted 
to  changin'  his  costume  was  nerve-rackin'  on  the  crowd, 
and  by  the  time  he  stepped  into  the  ring  again  they 
was  all  ready  to  bite  nails.  A  cheer  which  swayed  the 
tent  poles  greeted  him  when  he  throwed  off  the  over 
coat  he  had  draped  over  his  walkin'  beam  shoulders 
and  walked  over  to  the  corner  selected  for  him.  He 
viewed  the  two  circus  attendants  which  was  deputized 
to  handle  him  with  open  suspicion,  and  absolutely  re 
fused  to  sit  down  on  the  stool  whilst  waitin'  for  the 
bell.  Oh,  this  baby  was  rarin'  to  go ! 

"What's  yer  name,  feller?"  whispered  the  announcer 
hoarsely,  standin'  beside  him.  "And  whereabouts  are 
ya  from?" 

"Joe  Kenney,"  says  the  hick  in  a  voice  as  deep  as 
the  center  of  the  Atlantic.  "My  place  is  near  Chick- 
asha,  and — 

"That  don't  mean  nothin'!"  snorts  the  announcer, 
straightenin'  up  and  facin*  the  crowd.  "Ladees  and 
gent-tel-men !"  he  roars,  pointin'  to  the  astonished 
Joseph.  "We  have  with  us  to-night  Oklahoma's  favor 
ite  son  and  one  of  this  fair  State's  leadin'  exponents  of 
the  manly  art,  which  has — ah — defeated  some  of  the 
best  men  in  his  class.  He  will  now  box  Kid  Roberts 


218  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

three  rounds  and  attempt  to  win  the  five-thousand- 
dollar  prize  by  knockin'  the  world's  heavyweight  cham- 
peen  off  of  his  feet.  Allow  me  to  present  to  you,  one 
and  all,  Hurricane  Kenney,  the  Chickasha  Bone 
Crusher !" 

The  mob  howls  with  joy,  and  Joe  Kenney 's  eyes 
stuck  out  of  his  head  till  you  could  of  knock  'em  off 
with  a  cane  when  he  hears  the  title  which  the  announcer 
had  bestowed  on  him,  the  first  time,  as  I  found  out  later, 
he  had  ever  stepped  into  a  ring !  Whilst  our  referee 
is  tellin'  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher  that  kickin',  bitin', 
jiu  jitsu,  or  pullin'  a  knife  will  disqualify  him,  a  scat- 
term'  beller  of  "Weights!  Weights!"  comes  up  from 
the  customers,  and  the  announcer  again  whispers  to 
Joseph,  then  leans  over  the  ropes. 

"The  weights!"  he  hollers.  "The  weights  is:  Kid 
Roberts,  one  ninety-seven  and  a  half;  Huriicane  Ken 
ney,  two  hundred  and  twenty-six !" 

"Wow !"  shrieks  the  crowd.  "Knock  him  out,  Ken 
ney,  we're  with  ya !" 

Then  the  bell  rung.  Kenney  had  evidently  made  up 
his  mind  that  he  would  qualify  immediately  for  the 
"Hurricane"  label  which  had  just  been  gave  him,  for 
he  charged  across  the  ring  at  the  Kid  with  a  snarl  like 
a  famished  panther.  For  a  man  of  his  bulk  he  was 
really  surprisin'ly  light  on  his  feet,  but  the  first  wild 
haymaker  he  let  go  was  the  tip  off  that  Joe  had  never 
before  pushed  his  knuckles  through  a  boxin'  glove. 
The  Kid  lazily  blocked  the  punch  and  countered  with 
a  straight  left  to  the  mouth  that  made  Kenney  say 
how  do  you  do  and  brung  joyful  yelps  from  the  crowd. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     219 

The  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher  then  uncorked  a  wicked 
right  swing  to  the  body,  which,  although  the  Kid  took 
it  on  his  elbow,  drove  him  against  the  ropes  and  the 
crowd  crazy. 

Kenney  followed  the  Kid  up,  pinnin'  him  against  a 
ring  post  with  his  huge  body,  and  suddenly  slidin'  one 
arm  around  the  champ's  neck,  he  begin  whalin'  away 
at  the  stomach  with  the  other.  The  big  tent  fairly 
quivered  with  the  uproar  now,  half  the  mob  booin' 
Kenney  and  yellin'  for  the  referee  to  break  'em,  and 
the  other  half  screamin'  for  the  Bone  Crusher  to  knock 
the  Kid  stiff.  The  pantin',  excited,  and  red-faced  ref 
eree,  both  hands  grabbin'  the  wagon  tongue  that  passed 
as  Kenney 's  arm,  was  actually  swingin'  off  the  floor 
on  it  tryin'  to  unhook  it  from  around  the  Kid's  neck. 
He  might  as  well  of  tried  to  push  over  the  Rocky 
Mountain  with  one  hand ! 

Roberts  curled  up  and  kept  his  head,  makin'  most  of 
Kenney's  rib  crackers  glance  off  his  arms,  but  some  of 
'em  was  gettin'  through,  and  when  they  did,  havin'  226 
pounds  of  bone  and  muscle  behind  'em — well,  they 
wasn't  doin'  the  Kid  any  good.  He  kept  choppin'  at 
Kenney's  head  and  face  with  his  right,  but  this  baby 
seemed  to  have  a  iron  jaw,  and,  besides,  they  was  too 
close  together  for  the  Kid  to  put  any  snap  in  his  blows. 

Roberts  looked  at  me  over  the  human  bear's  shoulder 
and  shook  his  head,  kinda  puzzled. 

"Down  below,  Kid !"  I  hollers.  "Down  below — work 
on  his  heart !" 

Still  cool,  the  champ  drops  his  head  till  it  rests  on 
Kenney's  heavin'  chest.  He  sets  himself  for  half  a 


220  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

second  and  then  both  arms  begin  pumpin'  like  pistons 
into  the  Hurricane's  body,  left — right,  left — right,  left 
— right,  left — right!  A  minute  of  this  and  Kenney's 
grunts  with  each  blow  could  be  plainly  heard  by  guys 
in  the  last  row.  The  arm  comes  away  from  the  Kid's 
neck,  and  I  see  the  back  muscles  quiverin'  under  the 
rollin'  skin. 

Quick  as  startled  lightnin'  the  Kid  shifts  his  attack, 
and  a  vicious  right  uppercut  sent  the  Bone  Crusher 
back  on  his  heels,  pawin'  at  the  breeze  for  support. 
Roberts,  however,  refused  to  follow  up  his  advantage 
and  put  him  away,  but  contented  himself  with  left- 
handin'  his  man  all  over  the  ring — never  lettin'  the  be 
wildered  Kenney  set  for  a  solid  punch. 

The  bell  only  seemed  to  irritate  the  Hurricane 
further,  and  he  took  two  free  swings  at  the  Kid  after 
the  latter  dropped  his  hands  and  started  for  his  corner, 
for  which  the  mob  gave  him  the  razz. 

When  the  indignant  referee  explained  to  him  that 
the  gong  meant  cease  firin',  Kenney  grinned  sheepish 
ly,  walked  over  to  the  Kid  and  shook  his  hand,  mum- 
blin'  somethin'  about  not  knowin'  the  rules. 

The  Kid  presents  him  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  a  pat 
on  the  back,  and  as  Joseph  returns  to  his  corner  the 
crowd  give  him  a  hand  which  would  of  tickled 
Chaplin. 

Durin'  the  rest  I  told  the  Kid  that  as  this  Kenney 
person  was  about  the  foulest  fighter  I  ever  seen  work, 
he  had  better  crack  him  and  be  done  with  it. 

Roberts  shakes  his  head  and  says  he'll  merely  keep 
him  off  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

"This  fellow  isn't  deliberately  foul,"  says  the  Kid. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     221 

"He's  simply  ignorant  of  the  rules — that's  all.  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  fought  in  a  ring  before  in  his  life  until 
this  minute.  Besides,  he's  too  tough  and  too  game  to 
be  stopped  with  a  punch.  I'd  have  to  wear  him  down 
with  punishment  first,  and  I'm  not  going  to  cut  him 
up.  Let  us  alone,  we're  having  a  lot  of  fun !" 

Kenney  didn't  land  two  solid  wallops  durin'  the  en 
tire  second  round,  though  he  must  of  throwed  eight 
million  gloves  in  the  general  direction  of  the  Kid's 
jaw. 

Long  before  the  bell  he  was  so  blown  and  tired  from 
his  own  exertions  that  he  lumbered  around  after  the 
dancin',  smilin'  Kid  like  a  drunken  elephant. 

Roberts  simply  give  the  Hurricane  and  the  crowd 
a  boxin'  lesson,  avoidin'  Kenney's  terrific  clouts  by 
shiftin'  his  body  aside  a  fraction  of  a  inch  or  makin' 
the  Bone  Crusher's  well-meant  efforts  slide  harmlessly 
around  his  neck  by  rollin'  his  head  this  way  and  that, 
whilst  the  customers  squealed  with  glee.  The  gong 
was  a  welcome  sound  to  Monsieur  Kenney,  which 
flopped  heavily  on  his  stool,  blowin'  like  a  school  of 
whales. 

Round  three  was  a  duplicate  of  the  other  two,  with 
the  slight  exception  that  it  only  went  a  minute  and  a 
half.  Kenney  was  slow  to  leave  his  corner,  and  so 
tired  from  chasin'  the  elusive  Kid  about  the  ring  that 
he  could  hardly  raise  his  hairy  arms.  His  stomach  was 
pumpin'  in  and  out  like  a  bellows. 

The  mob,  quick  to  sense  his  condition,  implored  the 
Kid  to  knock  him  for  a  goal,  but  Roberts  had  no  such 
idea.  He  straightened  the  Hurricane  up  with  a  couple 
of  stiff  jabs  to  the  face,  and  Kenney's  knees  sagged 


222          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

as  he  fell  over  against  the  ropes,  mouth  open,  gaspin', 
and  primed  to  be  bounced. 

The  Kid  stepped  away  from  him  to  make  him  lead, 
and  as  Kenney  swung  wildly  with  both  hands  to  the 
head,  the  champ  slid  inside  the  blows  and  planted  a 
short  right  hook  to  the  jaw.  I  know  Roberts  pulled 
the  punch.  There  was  hardly  enough  kick  in  it  to 
rock  a  man,  and  a  few  minutes  earlier  Kenney  would 
of  brushed  it  off  like  a  fly.  But  now  it  was  all  differ 
ent  !  Out  of  condition  and  exhausted  by  his  own  wild 
swingin',  the  Bone  Crusher  toppled  to  his  knees  with 
a  crash  that  shook  the  ring. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  the  referee's  count — prob'ly 
didn't  know  what  it  was  all  about — but  turnin'  his  head 
around  he  snarled  somethin'  at  the  cuckoo  mob,  which 
was  on  its  feet  screamin'  at  him.  Slowly  and  pain 
fully  Kenney  pulled  himself  upright  at  the  count  of 
"six,"  a  thin,  crimson  stream  tricklin'  from  one  corner 
of  his  mouth,  where  the  Kid  had  prob'ly  loosened  a 
tooth.  He  spread  his  tremblin*  legs  wide  apart  to  brace 
himself  upright,  and  faced  the  Kid  with  danglin',  use 
less  arms,  his  glarin'  eyes  the  livest  portion  of  his 
tired  body.  Settin'  his  jaw,  Kenney  stares  grimly  into 
the  Kid's  troubled  features. 

"Go  ahead,  old-timer,"  pants  this  twenty-nine  carat 
gamester,  "they  ain't  nothin'  to  hinder  yuh  now !" 

With  the  deleerious  mob  bellerin'  for  murder,  show 
me  the  champion  or  preliminary  bum  which  wouldn't 
of  measured  this  guy  and  knocked  him  stiff! 

But  Kid  Roberts  drew  back  and  looked  sharply  at 
the  beaten  Hurricane  for  a  instant,  and  then,  as  Ken 
ney  suddenly  swayed  on  his  feet,  the  Kid  stepped  for- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     223 

ward  and  caught  him  in  his  arms,  easin'  him  gently 
to  the  floor. 

"Next !"  bawls  the  announcer. 

The  mob  is  already  jostlin'  out  of  the  exits. 

We  had  to  lay  over  in  this  burg  till  two  o'clock  the 
next  afternoon,  and  durin'  breakfast  in  the  Kid's  pri 
vate  car  we  get  to  talkin'  about  Monsieur  Hurricane 
Kenney,  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher.  I  had  person 
ally  gave  that  baby  a  lot  of  thought,  for  at  the  time  I 
was  already  keepin'  a  eye  out  for  a  possible  successor 
to  Roberts,  which  couldn't  be  moved  a  inch  from  his 
determination  to  quit  the  ring  after  a  couple  of  fights 
as  champion,  win,  lose,  or  draw.  The  fact  that  the 
Kid  had  disposed  of  Kenney  with  the  greatest  of  ease 
the  night  before  didn't  bother  me  at  all — Kid  Roberts 
himself  was  a  terrible  bust  in  his  first  start. 

Kenney  had  showed  he  possessed  the  first  and  most 
important  requirement  of  a  fighter,  viz.  and  to  wit, 
courage.  Also,  I  had  the  Kid's  word  for  it  that  he 
could  hit.  As  he  stood  now  he  didn't  know  the  differ 
ence  between  a  left  hook  and  the  referee,  but  he  could 
be  taught  that,  and  likewise  to  hit  from  his  bulgin' 
shoulders  instead  of  from  his  hips.  Although  he  looked 
ten  years  older,  he  had  give  his  age  as  twenty-four, 
another  big  help.  Standin'  a  good  three  inches  over 
six  foot,  he  scaled  226,  of  which  perhaps  fifteen  pounds 
was  flabby  and  could  be  worked  off,  leavin'  him  a  steel- 
sinewed,  giant  fightin'  machine  with  heart  enough  to 
make  him  a  serious  problem  in  a  twenty- four  foot  ring 
for  any  man !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  figured  that  about 
three  months  readyin'  up  and  workin'  out  with  my 


224  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

champ  would  make  Kenney  ripe  to  wade  through  the 
third-rate  heavies  as  sensationally  as  the  Kid  did. 

I  put  it  up  to  Roberts,  and  he  was  enthusiastic. 

"Bring  him  along,  by  all  means,"  he  nods.  "He's 
a  good,  game  fellow  and  may  develop  into  a  first-class 
heavyweight.  At  all  events,  he'll  make  a  splendid  spar 
ring  partner,  for,  in  spite  of  his  greenness,  he's  tough 
and  dangerous  enough  to  keep  me  on  my  toes  for  a  few 
minutes  at  least.  I  admire  the  way  he  stood  up  to  me, 
and  I'll  take  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  teaching  him 
what  I  can." 

He  takes  out  his  wallet  and  removes  a  hundred-case 
note.  "Here,"  he  adds,  "that  big  fellow's  poor  showing 
against  a  smaller  man  last  night  must  have  been  rather 
humiliating.  I  know  how  miserable  I  felt  the  first 
time!  Give  him  this — it'll  cheer  him  up  a  bit.  From 
the  desperate  way  he  tried  to  put  me  out,  the  poor 
devil  probably  needs  it,  unless  I'm  very  much  mis 
taken." 

He  was  very  much  mistaken!  I  ambled  into  a  gen 
eral  store  where  they  sold  everything  from  potatoes  to 
pianos,  and  learned  that  Joseph  Kenney  could  be  found 
on  a  cattle  mine  about  two  miles  out  of  the  metropolis. 
The  merchant  prince  which  owns  the  store  heartily  rec 
ommends  his  son  as  a  scout,  and  a  long,  lean,  lank 
dumb-bell  garbed  like  Wm.  S.  Hart,  minus  the  artillerv, 
quits  killin'  flies  with  the  lash  of  a  quirt  and  nods  for 
me  to  follow  him  out. 

I  was  just  goin'  to  inform  him  that  ridin'  horses 
was  one  of  the  two  or  three  things  I  ain't  fluent  at, 
when  he  leads  me  over  to  a  ancient,  dilapidated  flivver, 
and  motions  me  to  enter  therein. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     225 

"Wait  a  minute!"  I  says.  "How  much  is  it  goin' 
to  set  me  back  for  this  joy  ride?" 

"Twenty  dollars !"  answers  my  charmin'  guide,  auto 
matically  disqualify  in'  himself  as  a  movie  cowboy  by 
usin'  two  hands  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

"I'll  give  you  five,"  I  says,  pleasantly. 

"Done,"  he  says.    "Git  in  and  hoi'  fast !" 

Joe  Kenney,  nee  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher,  was 
discovered  aboard  a  horse  with  some  guys  afoot  which 
was  mendin'  rails  in  a  fence.  He  returned  my  greetin' 
intact.  A  little  mouse  under  his  right  eye  and  a  slightly 
puffed  lip  was  the  only  visible  signs  of  strife  on 
the  man  mountain's  countenance.  Realizin'  how  a 
hundred  bucks  must  appeal  to  a  forty-dollar-the-month 
cow-puncher,  I  drawed  forth  the  bill  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

"A  little  present  from  Kid  Roberts,"  I  explains  with 
a  bewitchin'  smile.  "Likewise,  I  have  come  to  offer 
you  a  chance  to  make  as  much  in  a  week  punchin'  ears 
as  you'd  make  in  a  month  punchin'  steers !  Boss  here, 
is  he?" 

The  world's  largest  cowboy  looks  the  hundred-case 
note  over  carefully,  folds  it  up,  and  slips  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Much  obliged !"  he  says.  "This  here's  the  Crawlin' 
S  ranch.  I  own  it,  so  I  reckon  I'm  the  boss!" 

Anybody  which  has  nothin'  else  to  do  can  picture  my 
astonishment. 

"Aheh,"  I  says,  when  I  recovered.  "Of  course,  bein' 
the  wealthy  owner  of  a  steak  farm  instead  of  a  lowly 
cowboy,  them — ah — hundred  smackers  I  just  give  you 
was  unnecessary  and — " 

"That's    all    right,"    butts    in    the    Bone    Crusher. 


226          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

''Every  little  bit  helps !  Come  up  to  the  house  and  I'll 
hear  yore  story." 

"Eh — I  hardly  think  it's  worth  while  now,"  I  says. 
"I'm  afraid  my  stuff  wouldn't  hit  you  at  all — you  bein' 
a  rich  cattle  king  and  the  like.  I  come  here  with  the 
idea  of  gettin'  you  interested  in  the  box-fightin' 
industry,  but " 

"Well,  pardner,"  interrupts  Kenney,  his  eyes 
gleamin'.  "Yuh  couldn't  have  throwed  in  with  a  more 
interested  man.  As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,  yore  talkin' 
to  the  comin'  heavyweight  champeen  of  the  world!" 

This  was  all  different  and  I  followed  him  up  to  the 
house  without  no  more  further  ado. 

A  sweet-faced,  brown-eyed, fairly  good-lookin'  young 
woman  is  sittin'  on  the  pazzaza  wieldin'  a  mean  darnin' 
needle  and  exercisin'  women's  inalienable  right  to  hum 
to  themselves  whilst  workin'.  At  the  foot  of  her 
rockin'-chair  romped,  as  I  rightly  guessed,  three  little 
Chickasha  Bone  Crushers. 

The  girl's  face  lit  up  like  a  cathedral  when  she  seen 
Kenney,  and  I  discovered  I  had  been  mistaken  when 
I  thought  her  fairly  good-lookin'.  She  was  beautiful. 
This  love  thing  is  wonderful  stuff,  and  I  bet  they'll 
be  a  crash  heard  round  the  world  when  /  fall  into  it ! 

Mention  of  the  fact  that  I  was  manager  of  a  prize 
fighter  killed  off  the  welcomin'  smile  on  the  face  of 
Kenney 's  wife,  but  the  introductions  was  accomplished 
without  violence  and  we  went  on  inside  the  house.  The 
Chickasha  Bone  Crusher  dragged  out  a  box  of  cigars, 
a  wink,  and  a  bottle  of  prohibition  antidote  in  that 
order. 

Then  he  sits  down  and  stretches  himself. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     227 

"Come  a-shootin' !"  he  says. 

I  asked  him  if  he  was  in  the  habit  of  drinkin'  and 
smokin'  as  trainin'  exercises,  and,  frownin',  he  says  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  doin'  what  he  pleased,  so  I  made 
the  greatest  haste  to  remark  that  whilst  it  was  none  of 
my  business,  he  was  ruinin'  his  wind  with  the  smokes 
and  his  nerves  with  the  hooch  and  that  most  successful 
scrappers  laid  off  both. 

With  a  grin,  Kenney  reaches  lazily  over  and  picks 
up  a  unusually  thick  poker  from  the  fireplace.  Placin' 
his  hands  about  a  foot  apart  on  it,  he  bent  it  double 
like  I'd  fold  a  sheet  of  paper.  Then  he  bent  it  back 
again  and  tossed  it  clatterin'  on  the  floor. 

I'd  never  seen  the  stunt  done  before  with  such  little 
effort.  They  was  no  veins  standin'  out  like  whipcords, 
as  the  sayin'  is,  on  Kenney's  20-inch  neck,  nor  did 
beads  of  perspiration  drop  off  his  brow.  He  done  the 
thing  as  carelessly  as  he'd  break  a  matchstick.  The 
Bone  Crusher  didn't  have  to  do  that  to  show  me  his 
muscle.  A  look  at  him  and  you'd  believe  he'd  moved 
Grant's  Tomb  six  inches  with  his  shoulders!  But 
strength  alone,  boys  and  girls,  is  not  enough  to  become 
a  title  holder  in  fistiana. 

For  the  example,  every  good  wrestler  has  had  ambi 
tions  to  become  a  boxin'  champ  at  one  time  or  another  in 
his  career  and  a  great  many  of  'em  have  laced  on  a  pair 
of  gloves  and  stepped  into  a  ring  only  to  be  made  look 
foolish  by  some  third-rate  pug.  Even  Frank  Gotch, 
the  daddy  of  'em  all,  once  had  this  experience.  Pro 
fessional  strong  men,  weight  lifters,  and  the  like  are 
flops  as  a  rule  when  they  turn  to  the  ring.  Their 
sinews  havin'  been  developed  for  show  or  pushin'  and 


228  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

haulin'  purposes,  they're  so  slow  and  muscle-bound  that 
the  slighter  boxer  has  no  trouble  at  all  steppin'  around 
'em  and  pastin'  'em  pretty. 

But  to  get  back  to  the  Bone  Crusher.  Inside  of  a  half 
hour  I  have  found  out  that  readin'  about  what  heavy 
weight  champions  got  for  a  few  minutes'  work  had 
murdered  Joe  Kenney's  interest  in  the  art  of  raisin' 
cows.  Likewise,  Joseph  made  no  secret  of  the  fact 
that  he  figured  himself  a  topside  slugger,  able  to  hold 
his  own  with  the  best  of  'em  right  now. 

"Well,  Joe,"  I  says  enthusiastically,  when  he  got 
finished,  "I'm  for  you  and  so's  Kid  Roberts.  Get  your 
hat  on  and  we'll  go  down  to  a  notary's  public  if  they 
is  one  in  this  burg.  I'll  sign  you  up  for  three  years  and 
you  can  start  workin'  out  with  the  Kid  right  away. 
With  me  as  your  manager  and  the  champ  as  your 
teacher — why,  say,  inside  of  a  year — " 

"Draw  in  yore  loop,  old-timer!"  butts  in  Joe,  risin' 
and  handin'  me  my  hat.  "I  don't  need  no  manager,  and 
I  ain't  aimin'  to  take  no  job  as  a  helper.  I  don't  want 
to  take  advantage  of  yore  champeen  by  joinin'  up  with 
his  outfit,  because  I  can  lick  the  tar  out  of  him  right 
now !  While  yore  here,  I'm  a-givin'  yuh  fair  warnin' — 
the  next  time  I  run  across  yore  man,  I'm  comin'  a- 
sluggin'  with  both  hands  !" 

A  dumb-bell  is  a  awful  thing,  hey? 

The  Kid  and  me  split  a  laugh  between  us  when  I 
told  him  how  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher  had  received 
my  generous  offer.  Then  we  forgot  all  about  Mon 
sieur  Kenney. 

The  next  stop  was  Tycopee,  another  duck-in  and 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     229 

duck-out  hamlet,  and  when  the  Kid  finishes  his  act  and 
calls  for  volunteers,  Battlin'  Thomas,  one  of  the  plants 
we  carried,  starts  up  the  aisle,  as  they  is  no  response 
from  the  brave  men  and  true  in  the  audience. 

Half  ways  to  the  ring  the  Battler  is  pushed  to  one 
side  by  a  large,  tall  person  wearin'  a  wide-brimmed 
black  Stetson. 

Layin'  one  hand  on  the  top  rope,  the  stranger  leaps 
into  the  ring,  waves  his  hand  airily  to  the  shoutin' 
crowd,  and  presents  me  and  the  Kid  with  a  sneerin', 
full-toothed  grin. 

"Beats  all  how  us  boys  do  cross  trails !"  says  Hurri 
cane  Kenney,  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher,  throwin'  his 
coat  over  one  of  the  posts.  "I'd  admire  to  draw  down 
them  five  thousand  dollars.  Whereabouts  is  them 
gauntlets  ?" 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  Kid  is  shakin'  hands  with 
a  somewhat  battered  and  slightly  bleedin'  human  shock 
absorber  entitled  Hurricane  Kenney.  One  of  Kenney's 
glims  is  a  study  in  purple,  and  a  cut  on  his  left  cheek 
bone  shows  the  dashin'  rancher  to  be  possessed  of  red 
blood  anyways.  Kid  Roberts  is  sportin'  several  crim 
son  blotches  on  his  gleamin'  white  body  where  some  of 
the  Hurricane's  wild  haymakers  has  landed,  but  outside 
of  that  is  unharmed. 

"Better  luck  next  time,  old  man !"  smiles  the  Kid  as 
we're  leaving  the  ring. 

"I'll  knock  yuh  out  the  next  time !"  growls  the  jovial 
Kenney. 

We  had  a  hundred-and-fifty-mile  jump  from  this 
slab,  and  a  wicked  rainstorm  when  we  got  there  kept 
most  of  the  natives  away.  But  it  didn't  keep  Joe  Ken- 


230          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

ney  away !  Joseph  ambled  up  the  aisle  and  took  a  front 
seat  whilst  the  Kid  was  givin'  a  exhibition  of  bag 
punchin'.  Seein'  him,  the  Kid  laughed  and  then  nodded 
pleasantly  and  Joe  replied  with  a  snarl  that  caused  the 
hicks  on  both  sides  of  him  to  edge  from  him  nervously. 

A  short  time  afterward  Joe  give  the  customers  a 
treat  by  crashin'  through  the  ropes  to  the  floor  twice,  in 
his  desperate  efforts  to  knock  Kid  Roberts  for  a  row  of 
ash  cans.  About  the  only  time  Kenney  laid  a  glove 
on  the  Kid  was  when  they  shook  hands  at  the  end  of 
the  thing. 

Well,  for  the  next  half  dozen  times  the  Chickasha 
Bone  Crusher  was  a  regular  feature  of  the  show, 
wherever  they  permitted  boxin'.  Kid  Roberts,  which 
seemed  to  be  gettin'  a  lot  of  giggles  out  of  Kenney, 
refused  to  knock  him  stiff  and  be  done  with  it,  although 
he  always  had  to  slow  up  this  big  ham  early  with  a 
smash  over  the  heart  so's  no  accidents  would  happen. 
Fin'ly  we  get  to  New  Orleans,  where  we're  due  to 
linger  a  week.  Kenney  fails  to  appear  on  the  openin' 
night,  and  I  lay  the  Kid  eight  to  five  that  the  Bone 
Crusher  has  decided  to  call  it  a  day.  He  showed  up 
on  the  last  night  and  the  big  stiff  thereby  costs  me 
eight  hundred  fish. 

But  before  Kenney  lumbered  into  the  ring  that  eve 
me  and  the  Kid  has  a  visitor  in  the  shape  of  no  less 
than  the  Bone  Crusher's  charmin'  young  wife.  She 
has  came  all  the  ways  from  dear  old  Chickasha  un 
known  to  her  bitter  half,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  cute 
trick  she  had  of  scrunchin'  up  her  little  nose  I  doubt 
if  I  would  of  knew  her. 

They  was  half  moons  under  the  honest  brown  eyes 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     231 

and  she's  a  bit  pale  and  drawn.  Sniffin'  scornfully  at 
the  bespangled,  short-skirted  ladies  of  the  trapeze  and 
the  etc.,  she  made  her  way  over  to  where  we  was 
standin'  on  the  lot.  She'd  seen  me,  of  course,  before, 
but  not  the  Kid,  and  she's  standin'  right  in  front  of 
him  when  she  asks  where  she  can  find  the  champion. 

Roberts  has  his  hat  off  and  is  bowin'  at  her  before 
I  can  stall  her  and  Mrs.  Hurricane  Kenney's  eyes  reg 
isters  surprise  as  they  sweep  the  smilin'  Kid  from  stem 
to  stern.  No  doubt  she  expected  to  see  some  cauli 
flower-eared,  red- faced,  snaggled-toothed,  hairy  cave 
man  instead  of  this  handsome  young  blond  which  looked 
almost  slight  alongside  of  her  gigantic  helpmeet. 

Although  I  kept  both  ears  wide  open  and  both  eyes 
glued  on  hers  whilst  she  talked,  I  could  find  nothin' 
suspicious  about  her  story — told  in  a  haltin',  moist 
voice  which  had  the  sympathetic  Kid  for  her,  and  me 
waverin'  before  she  had  said  six  words.  It  seemed 
that  Joe  Kenney  had  now  gone  cuckoo  on  the  subject 
of  box  fightin',  and  his  idea  that  he  would  be  the  next 
world's  heavyweight  champion  had  been  greatly 
strengthened  by  the  fact  that  the  Kid  hadn't  flattened 
him  to  date.  So  he  has  turned  his  ranch  over  to  a 
dumb-bell  brother  to  run  and,  accordin'  to  Mrs.  Ken 
ney,  said  brother  is  runnin'  it  right  into  the  ground. 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Kenney  resorts  to  the  use  of  props. 
She  extracts  a  gram  of  lace  from  her  pocketbook  and 
with  a  occasional  touch  of  it  to  the  eyes  she  says  she 
and  the  Bone  Crusher  was  happy  and  everything  was 
jake  till  the  circus  and  the  Kid  come  to  town.  She 
don't  accuse  the  Kid  in  words  of  havin'  gummed  things 
up,  but  she  does  it  with  her  eyes,  whilst  she's  half 


232  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

sobbin'  that  she  don't  want  her  husband  to  be  no 
pugeylist  and  that  him  chasin'  all  over  the  country  after 
the  circus  is  bustin'  up  her  home.  She  claims  if  the 
Kid  don't  send  the  wanderin'  Bone  Crusher  back  to 
Chickasha,  Kenney  won't  have  no  wife,  ranch,  or  jack 
left. 

"It  might  sound  funny  to  you,  Mister  Kid,"  she 
winds  up,  with  a  quiverin'  of  lip  that  was  sure  fire  on 
Roberts.  "But  it's  a  tragedy  to  me !" 

Well,  the  Kid  spent  the  best  part  of  fifteen  minutes 
tellin'  her  to  go  home  and  cheer  up,  leavin'  everything 
else  to  us. 

He  says  if  Hurricane  Kenney  shows  up  in  this  burg 
he  will  have  a  long  talk  with  him  and  do  all  he  can  to 
lay  him  off  the  art  of  box  fightin'.  He  also  adds  that 
Kenney  is  the  luckiest  guy  since  Columbus  to  have 
discovered  a  wife  like  she,  which  brings  a  healthy  blush 
and  a  pleasant  smile  to  the  rapidly  brightenin'  face  of 
Mrs.  K.  Then  I  crammed  into  her  hands  a  lot  of 
balloons  to  be  bio  wed  up  and  other  souvenirs  of  the 
circus  for  the  kids,  and  we  took  her  to  the  station  in 
the  Kid's  bus,  so's  the  Bone  Crusher  wouldn't  run 
across  her  was  he  in  our  midst. 

These  frequent  settos  with  the  good-natured  world's 
champion  wasn't  makin'  Kenney  no  worse,  and  he  has 
now  advanced  to  the  point  where  he's  hittin'  straight 
from  the  shoulder  and  the  Kid  is  extended  to  keep  him 
off  without  droppin'  him  this  time.  After  the  bout  we 
go  into  the  dressin'  room  off  the  ring  to  interview  Ken 
ney  as  advertised  to  his  wife.  As  a  success,  the  inter 
view  was  a  failure. 

Kid  Roberts,  with  a  brotherly  air  advises  the  Chick- 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     233 

asha  Bone  Crusher  to  quit  followin'  us  hithers  and  yon 
and  go  back  to  his  charmin'  consort.  He  tells  Kenney 
what  a  tough  game  boxin'  is,  how  he  personally  dislikes 
it  himself  and  that  he's  goin'  to  leave  the  ring  flat  on 
its  back  in  another  year.  Windin'  up,  the  Kid  pats  the 
Bone  Crusher  on  the  back  and  remarks  that  with  his 
wonderful  family  and  prosperous  ranch,  Kenney 's  a 
sultan  compared  to  the  average  prize  fighter. 

The  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher,  pullin'  on  his  citizen's 
clothes,  has  heard  Kid  Roberts  through  without  a  word 
but  with  a  sneer  on  his  face  which  would  of  caused 
anybody  else  in  the  world  outside  of  the  Kid  to  knock 
him  dead  as  he  sat  on  the  stool.  Now,  he  looks  up 
from  tyin'  his  shoes  and  one  swollen  lip  curls  to  the 
tip  of  his  beak. 

"Sho'  is  noble  of  yuh  to  look  after  me,"  he  snarls, 
"but  yuh  can't  buck  jump  me  thataway .  I  aims  to  stay 
on  yore  back  till  I'm  champeen,  which  same  I'll  be  as 
sure  as  my  name's  Joe  Kenney!  Reckon  I'm  gettin' 
too  rough  for  yuh,  hey  ?  Come  mighty  near  ropin'  yuh 
there  for  a  minute  to-night,  didn't  I?  Yeh,  and  I 
would  have,  only  they  rung  the  bell  when  they  seen  yuh 
was  hurt.  Good  thing  I  had  them  pillows  on  my  hands 
or  I'd  have  sure  mussed  up  that  baby  face  of  yourn, 
pardner!  I'd  admire  to  take  yuh  on  in  a  finish  fight 
with  bare  knuckles — without  no  bells  and  without  that 
cotton  paddin'  on  my  hands !"  He  give  a  nasty  laugh. 
"But  I  don't  reckon  yuh  hanker  for  no  manhandlin'. 
Takes  a  fighter  for  that,  not  a  boxer,  hey?" 

"You  big — "  I  begins,  but  the  hard  glitter  only  stayed 
a  second  in  the  Kid's  eyes.  He  pulled  me  to  the  door. 

"Kenney,"  he  laughs  shortly,  "you're  an  insulting  and 


234          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

aggravating  fool!  For  your  information,  let  me  say 
that  I  could  have  knocked  you  out  at  any  time  you  were 
in  the  ring  with  me.  I  don't  want  deliberately  to  hurt 
you,  and  evidently  nothing  but  a  thorough  beating  will 
reach  your  asinine  egotism.  Well,  I'm  human,  Ken- 
ney — in  the  future,  keep  away  from  me !" 

We  didn't  wait  for  the  Bone  Crusher's  answer. 

From  New  Orleans  to  Washington  Kenney  followed 
the  circus,  but  he  had  no  more  bouts  with  the  Kid. 
Instead  in  every  town  he  publicly  challenged  my  title 
holder  to  a  finish  fight  for  the  world's  championship, 
which  got  us  beaucoup  publicity  gratis  in  the  sticks. 
In  most  of  the  big  burgs  the  wise-crackin'  newspaper 
guys  had  the  Bone  Crusher  pegged  as  a  plant  and 
wouldn't  give  him  a  tumble.  In  Washington,  however, 
one  of  the  sport  writers  fell  for  him  and  after  a  inter 
view,  printed  under  Kenney 's  photo  a  two-column  blah 
of  romantical  hooch  about  him  bein'  a  dashin'  cowboy 
from  the  ferocious  West  and  the  etc.,  and  demandin' 
that  he  be  gave  a  crack  at  the  title  immediately. 

Well,  boys  and  girls,  he  got  it ! 

The  minute  we  blowed  into  the  nation's  capital,  Kid 
Roberts  fled  out  to  Senator  Brewster's  palace  to  pass 
the  time  of  day  with  his  comin'  bride,  the  delicious 
Dolores.  He  cut  his  act  down  to  twenty  minutes  that 
night,  leavin'  the  sparrin'  out  entirely,  and  I  followed 
him  into  the  dressin'  room  to  find  his  Jap  valet  layin' 
out  a  dress  suit  and  packin'  a  bathrobe,  fightin'  trunks, 
and  bandages  into  a  grip.  He  grins  at  the  expression 
which  must  of  been  on  my  face. 

"Just  in  time !"  he  says.  "I  was  going  to  send  Kogi 
after  you.  I've  got  to  be  downtown  by  ten-fifteen — 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     235 

see  that  the  car's  ready,  will  you,  old  man?  I've  prom 
ised  Dolores  I'd  box  two  rounds  with  some  one  at  the 
Red  Cross  benefit  to-night.  She's  one  of  the  patron 
esses,  you  know,  and  it  will  be  rather  a  feather  in  her 
cap  to  have  a  world's  champion  there.  They  have  a 
big  card  of  theatrical  stars,  movie  people,  and  a  lot  of 
prominent  boxers.  You  know  how  these  things  are, 
one  has  to  help.  I  want  you  to  handle  me  yourself — 
this  will  be  nothing,  just  an  exhibition,  and  I'm  afraid 
Dynamite  Jackson  and  Knockout  Burns  might  scare 
the  ladies  away !" 

"Well — all  right,"  I  grumbled.  "I  guess  they's  no 
harm  in  helpin'  the  Red  Cross,  Kid,  but  this  here's  kind 
of  sudden.  I  don't  like  these  short-notice  affairs.  Who 
you  goin'  to  box  and — " 

Kid  Roberts  throws  back  his  head  and  laughs. 
"Hurricane  Kenney,  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crusher !"  he 
chortles.  "He's  apparently  impressed  this  sporting 
writer  who  wrote  that  article  about  him,  and  I  really 
believe  the  pair  of  them  think  they're  slipping  one  over 
on  me.  Of  course  Kenney 's  challenging  me  has  smoked 
the  thing  up  so  that — " 

"Knock  him  dead  the  minute  he  puts  up  his  hands," 
I  butts  in.  "We'll  get  that  baby  all  settled  to 
night!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  may  have  to  stop  him  this  time,"  says 
the  Kid  grimly,  shakin'  his  head.  "The  poor  fool. 
Well — come  on !" 

The  last-minute  announcement  that  Kid  Roberts  was 
goin'  to  step  two  rounds  with  Hurricane  Kenney,  the 
cowboy  challenger  for  the  championship,  brought  two- 


236  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

thirds  of  Washington  out  to  the  big  auditorium  where 
the  Red  Cross  benefit  was  bein'  had.  By  the  time  we 
had  shouldered  our  way  through  the  mob  down  into  the 
basement  where  the  men's  dressin'  room  was,  congress 
men  was  out  in  the  street  fightin'  with  less  known 
millionaires  for  the  privilege  of  payin'  two  hundred 
bucks  to  stand  up  inside.  We  could  plainly  hear  Ken- 
ney's  voice  in  the  room  opposite  the  one  we  took  whilst 
I  was  bandagin'  the  Kid's  hands.  I  hadn't  bothered  to 
lock  the  door,  and  suddenly  it  opens  and  closes  gently 
and  when  I  glance  quickly  around  at  the  Kid's  startled 
exclamation,  I  see  no  less  than  Mrs.  Kenney  is  inside. 
She's  tremblin'  like  a  shaken  jelly  and  on  the  brinks  of 
weeps.  Her  cute  little  face  is  the  color  of  cream,  but 
her  eyes  is  feverish. 

The  Kid  jumps  up  frownin'ly  and  throws  a  bath 
robe  around  his  shoulders. 

"Forgive  me — I — I — had  to  come !"  pants  Mrs. 
Kenney  in  a  chokin'  whisper.  "I — Joe  has  sold  the 
ranch  and  bet  every  penny  we  have  in  the  world  that 
he  will  knock  you  out  to-night!" 

"Oh,  the  infernal  ass!"  gasps  the  Kid.  "Good 
Heavens,  what  a  mess !  You  poor  girl !" 

"Who  did  he  bet  with— quick !"  I  says.  "Maybe  I 
can—" 

"It's  too  late!"  moans  Mrs.  Kenney,  collapsin'  into 
a  chair  and  hidin'  her  face  in  her  hands.  "I  saw  the 
man — Big  Bill  Henderson,  they  call  him — who's  hold 
ing  the  stakes.  I  told  him  everything,  but  it  was  no 
use.  He  said  he  would  not  give  Joe  back  the  money 
unless  there  wasn't  any  bout.  There  must  not  be  a  bout, 
do  you  hear  ?" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     237 

She  jumps  up  off  the  chair  and  faces  the  Kid  like 
she  was  willin'  to  take  him  on  herself ! 

"My  dear  girl,"  says  the  Kid,  "I  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  help  you,  but  if  I  refuse  to  meet  your 
husband  now  I — why — I'd  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
country !  The  ridicule  would  prevent  me  from — " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  refuse  to  meet  him !"  interrupts 
Mrs.  Kenney,  excitedly.  "That  wouldn't  cure  him. 
Joe  would  still  think  he  could  whip  you  then  and  he'd 
keep  after  you  until  you  fought  him !  You  don't  know 
him  like  I  do." 

The  Kid,  pacin'  up  and  down  the  room,  has  been 
castin'  nervous  glances  at  the  hall.  Now  he  stops  and 
bends  over  her  with  a  finger  on  his  lip. 

"Sssh !"  he  says  in  a  low  voice.  "Mrs.  Kenney,  you 
will  have  to  leave  my  dressing  room.  I'll  delay  the  bout 
and  try  to  think  of  some  way  out  of  this  muddle  for 
you,  but  you  must  go  immediately  and  be  careful  not 
to  be  seen  leaving  here.  You  have  been  very  indiscreet 
in  coming  here  at  all !  Your  husband  is  dressing  in  a 
room  across  the  corridor,  and  if  he  heard  your  voice — 
found  out  you  were  in  here — well,  it  is  quite  possible 
with  his  quick  temper  that  he  might — eh — misinterpret 
your  visit.  Please  go  at  once." 

Mrs.  Kenney  caught  her  breath  in  a  half  sob  that 
sent  my  Adam's  apple  bobbin'  around  like  a  cork  in 
the  ocean,  and  the  Kid's  drawn  face  showed  how 
deeply  he  was  moved.  She  looked  so  little  and  helpless 
standin'  there  beside  us  two  big  stiffs  that — oh,  dammit, 
you  know !  I  turned  away,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye  I  see  her  edgin'  slowly  for  the  door. 


238          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"If — if  Joe  couldn't  appear — out  there — the  bets 
would  be  off,  wouldn't  they?"  she  breathes. 

I  nodded. 

Then — Sweet  Mamma,  listen ! 

The  soft  brown  eyes  turns  hard  and  glitterin'.  She 
suddenly  bangs  the  door  shut,  turns  the  key,  and  lets 
out  a  ear-splittin'  shriek!  Almost  on  the  instant  it 
seemed  to  me,  a  bull's  beller  boomed  in  the  hall,  the 
door  rattles,  and — smash!  Flounderin',  sprawlin', 
hysterically  cursin',  Joe  Kenney  crashed  through  the 
crumbled  door  into  the  room. 

Like  the  Kid,  Kenney  was  in  ring  togs  minus  the 
gloves,  a  roll  of  soft  bandage  still  danglin'  from  one 
hand.  For  a  second  he  peered  around  the  dressin' 
room  like  a  guy  walkin'  from  the  dark  into  a  brilliantlly 
lighted  hall.  His  little,  flamin'  red  eyes  passed  over 
me  on  to  his  chalk-faced  wife  which  stood  silent  against 
the  wall,  her  face  turned  away  from  the  amazed  stare 
of  the  Kid. 

I  grabbed  her  arm  and  shook  it,  pointin'  frantically 
to  Kenney — tryin'  to  show  her  by  signs  to  say  somethin', 
explain  the  thing  to  her  husband.  For  some  reason,  I 
couldn't  talk,  though  my  lips  worked  enough!  She 
hung  her  head  and  said  nothin'.  With  a  roarin'  curse, 
the  Bone  Crusher  got  me  by  the  waist  and  throwed  me 
the  length  of  the  room.  I  fell  sprawlin'  in  a  corner 
and  then,  whilst  the  mob  waited  impatiently  upstairs 
for  the  world's  champion  and  his  cowboy  challenger 
to  climb  through  the  ropes  for  a  two-round,  gentle 
manly  sparrin'  exhibition,  they  fought  in  the  dressin' 
room  the  bloodiest,  most  sensational  battle  that  I,  you, 
or  anybody  else  ever  was  privileged  to  see  and  they 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     239 

went  at  it  the  way  Kenney  always  wanted  it — with  bare 
knuckles ! 

I  can  close  my  glims  and  see  that  scrap  now  as  well 
as  if  it  come  off  last  night.  Boys  and  girls,  it  was  sure 
one  for  the  book !  They  was  no  ring,  no  padded  mitts, 
no  referee  to  prevent  foul  fightin',  no  bell  to  call  a  brief 
halt,  no  handlers  to  sponge  off  gore  or  close  a  ugly  cut. 

No  yellin'  crowd  was  poundin'  their  seats  and  eggin' 
them  babies  on — they  was  nothin'  but  Kenney 's  wife 
sunk  to  her  knees,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms  at  one 
end  of  the  room  and  me  crouched  half  dazed  in  the 
other,  tryin'  to  keep  cool  and  advise  my  battler,  which 
was  absolutely  fightin'  for  his  life. 

Over  the  busted  door  peered  a  half  dozen  scared 
faces,  but  if  they  did  or  said  anything,  nobody  noticed. 

They  was  no  stallin'  this  time,  no  pullin'  wallops  to 
let  Kenney  stay.  Kid  Roberts  was  puttin'  everything 
he  had  into  each  punch,  for  the  Chickasha  Bone  Crush 
er  had  turned  killer  and  twice  had  bent  the  Kid  over 
his  giant's  knee  with  both  hands  sunk  in  his  white 
throat.  Each  time  the  gaspin'  Kid  had  wriggled  free 
and  pounded  Kenney 's  face  to  a  purple  jelly  before  the 
Bone  Crusher  bulled  his  way  in  close  to  grab  the  champ 
around  the  body  with  one  arm  and  pound  his  ribs  with 
the  other.  A  wild  swing  caught  Roberts  fair  on  the 
chin  and  he  crashed  against  the  opposite  wall,  his  head 
hittin'  with  a  crack  that  wrung  a  scream  from  me.  In 
a  flash,  Kenney  was  on  him,  bangin'  him  back  and  forth 
against  the  wall  with  little,  sickenin'  snarlin'  grunts 
like  a  wild  animal  over  its  kill. 

Half  cuckoo,  I  jumped  to  my  feet  and  pawed  at  the 


240  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Bone  Crusher's  wet  and  strainin'  back.  "Fight  fair — 
you  big  yellah  bum!"  I  shrieked,  and  it  was  the  Kid, 
with  a  tooth-barin'  snarl  that  equaled  Kenney's  own, 
which  shoved  me  away  with  a  free  arm.  Kenney, 
havin'  exhausted  every  foul  means  of  fightin' — fair 
enough  to  him,  I  guess,  accordin'  to  the  rules  of  what 
brawls  he'd  been  in — decided  to  butt  the  Kid  and  as  he 
lowered  his  head,  Roberts  straightened  him  up  with  a 
terrific  left  and  right,  danced  away  from  the  wall  and 
broke  the  Bone  Crusher's  nose  with  a  solid  right  smash. 

The  ensuin*  gore  covered  them  both,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  by  this  time  Kenney  had  went  clean  crazy, 
for  he  grabbed  at  a  chair  and  brung  it  down  on  the 
Kid's  shoulders,  crashin'  him  to  the  floor.  Had  I  a  gat, 
I  would  of  cooked  Monsieur  Kenney  then  and  there! 
I  done  the  best  I  could,  by  shovin'  out  a  foot  and  trippin' 
him  as  he  rushed  to  give  the  prostrate  Kid  the  boots. 

They  both  got  up  at  the  same  time  and  stood  pantin', 
facin'  each  other — a  sight  for  a  movie  director.  Ken 
ney's  face  was  a  shapeless  mass  from  which  features 
could  only  be  picked  by  guess  work. 

The  Kid,  drenched  with  the  Bone  Crusher's  gore, 
looked  almost  as  bad,  and  they  was  a  expression  on  his 
face  I  had  seldom  seen  there  when  he  was  in  a  ring. 
Forced  into  this  mill,  Roberts  had  took  more  punish 
ment  than  he  ever  had  before  in  his  life,  and  his  ability 
to  take  it  amazed  even  me.  He'd  been  manhandled, 
fouled  and  hurt,  and,  shakin'  his  blond  head,  he  plunged 
into  Kenney  like  a  lean,  savage  wolf  against  a  ragin' 
bear.  For  a  full  minute  now  they  stood  toe  to  toe 
and  slugged,  and  few  wallops  went  wild,  though  none 
had  the  steam  behind  them  they  had  at  first. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  241 

They'd  both  taken  enough  solid  smashes  to  of  licked 
a  dozen  heavies ! 

A  funny  look  of  awed  wonderment  begin  to  spread 
over  Kenney's  crimson  map.  Slowly  he  begin  to  give 
ground,  his  one  good  eye  blinkin'  in  fear  and  amaze 
ment.  Almost  twice  the  size  of  the  slender  Kid,  he 
had  give  him  everything  he  had — buried  his  fists  to  the 
wrist  in  that  corded  steel  body  a  dozen  times  and  the 
Kid  was  still  there,  givin'  wallop  for  wallop.  I  for 
got  the  fight  almost  in  watchin'  Kenney's  face,  and  I 
knew  I  read  his  thoughts  correct,  when  without  hardly 
knowin'  it,  I  bawled :  "Now  you  know  why  he's  champ 
ion,  you  big  tramp !" 

I  could  of  swore  Kenney  nodded.  Anyhow,  he  begin 
to  back  pedal  desperately,  and  now  the  Kid  was  cool 
and  grinnin'  for  the  first  time  since  the  murder  started. 
He  feinted  the  Bone  Crusher  into  a  openin'  and  drove 
through  his  right  to  the  jaw.  The  groggy  Kenney 
swayed  back  and  forth,  both  arms  clumsily  raised  be 
fore  his  battered  face,  and  settin'  himself,  Kid  Roberts 
banged  one  of  Kenney's  own  fists  against  his  chin  with 
another  torrid  right.  The  man  mountain  toppled  for 
ward  into  a  perfectly  timed  uppercut,  seemed  to  hang 
in  the  air  a  instant,  and  suddenly  toppled  over  on  his 
back — knocked  stiff! 

Gaspin',  the  Kid  stood  over  him  glarin'  down  at  the 
lifeless  hulk.  He  actually  seemed  sorry  it  was  over ! 

Mrs.  Kenney  pulls  the  Bone  Crusher's  head  into  her 
lap  and,  weepin'  softly,  is  tryin'  to  wipe  off  the  gore 
with  a  one-inch  handkerchief.  The  Kid  bends  down 
to  her,  his  own  voice  shakin'. 

16 


242  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"Mrs.  Kenney,"  he  says,  "this  is  a  terrible  thing — 
but  it  had  to  be !  There  was  no  way — " 

"I'm  glad  he  was  whipped,"  butts  in  the  remarkable 
Mrs.  Kenney,  meetin'  the  Kid's  eye.  "Now  maybe — 
he'll — stay — home — with — me !" 

Yet  when  Roberts  reaches  down  to  sponge  Kenney's 
face,  she  knocks  his  arm  away. 

"Let  him  alone!"  she  says  fiercely  and  covers  the 
Bone  Crusher's  face  with  her  arms.  "Go  away  and 
leave  him  with  me.  You've  done  enough !" 

Girls  is  a  bit  odd,  hey  ? 

A  announcement  is  made  to  the  mob  that  the  Kid 
Roberts-Hurricane  Kenney  bout  is  off — on  account  of 
Kenney  havin'  hurt  his  arm  in  trainin'.  So  that  was 
that. 

Being  terrible  tough,  the  Bone  Crusher  is  in  shape 
to  start  back  to  dear  old  Chickasha  with  the  Missus  in 
a  hour.  By  usin'  her  nut,  his  charmin'  wife  has  saved 
him  his  dough,  the  humiliation  of  gettin'  a  proper 
pastin'  before  the  crowd,  and  likewise  convinced  him 
that  ranchin'  is  a  better  game  than  fightin'.  The  deep 
est  regret  Kenney  seemed  to  have  when  he  come  to 
was  that  the  only  time  his  wife  had  ever  seen  him 
fight  was  the  holocaust  just  finished  in  which  he  run 
second  and  he  remarks  half  mournfully  to  Roberts : 

"She  must  think  I'm  a  hell  of  a  fighter,  now !" 

The  Kid  shook  his  hand  warmly  and  told  him  he 
had  gave  him  the  hardest  battle  he'd  had  or  ever 
hoped  to  have  in  his  life.  Then  he  turns  to  Mrs. 
Kenney. 

"And  now,"  he  says,  grimly,  "perhaps  you'll  explain 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  243 

to  your  husband  just  why  you  came  to  my  dressing 
room  this  evening — and  screamed!" 

At  this  the  Bone  Crusher,  which  seemed  to  have 
forgot  the  cause  of  the  muss,  straightens  up  again  and 
growls,  his  grin  freezin'  into  a  scowl  at  the  Kid. 

"Why — of  course,"  says  Mrs.  Kenney,  brightly, 
lookin'  straight  into  the  Kid's  face  and  speakin'  to  her 
husband.  "I  came  down  here  looking  for  your  dressing 
room  and — er — I — entered  Mister  Roberts's  by  mis 
take.  When  I  saw  that  I  was  in  the  wrong  room  it 
gave  me  such  a  start  that — / — I  just — screamed  from 
— eh — fright — that  was  all!  I  would  have  explained 
at  once,  but  you  began  fighting  and  I  had  no 
chance." 

Woof! 

"Oh — aheh — I  see !"  grins  Kenney,  with  a  sheepish 
look  at  the  Kid. 

But  the  Kid  ain't  lookin'  at  him.  Roberts  is  regardin' 
Mrs.  Kenney  with  open  admiration.  She  gets  a  slow 
crimson  and  turns  her  head.  Kenney  looks  from  one 
to  the  other  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"Come  on!"  says  the  Kid  to  me.  "I've  got  to  do 
some  explaining  myself.  Throw  my  stuff  in  the  grip 
and  we'll  use  Kenney's  room  to  dress." 

He  went  out  and  Kenney  stands  lookin'  at  his  wife 
for  a  minute.  It  struck  me  that  he  seemed  half  pleased 
that  she  had  drawed  that  glance  from  the  champion, 
though  of  course  the  poor  boob  didn't  know  what  had 
caused  it. 

"He's  not  a  bad  hombre,"  remarks  the  Bone  Crusher, 
"and  he  licked  me  fair  enough — but  he  ain't  fooled  me 
none  with  his  slick  talk.  That  feller  was  stuck  on  yuh, 


244          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

Bess.  I  could  see  it  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  yuh ! 
Guess  I  better  get  yuh  home  to  the  ranch,  or  I'll  be 
losin'  yuh,  eh?  All  the  punchin'  I'm  goin'  to  do  here 
after,  Bess,  will  be  in  connection  with  cows !" 

Thus  passed  Joseph  Kenney,  the  Chickasha  Bone 
Crusher.  .  .  . 

Some  time  very  late  that  night  Kid  Roberts  is  tellin' 
Miss  Dolores  Brewster,  in  a  reception  room  off  the  ball 
room  at  the  Red  Cross  dance,  that  he  got  the  bumps 
on  his  face  in  a  auto  accident  and  that  he  don't  feel 
up  to  foxtrottin',  but  will  call  for  her  after  the  ball. 

"Please  let  me  explain,  dear,  why  I  didn't  appear  at 
the  benefit,"  he's  sayin'.  "The  most  sensational 
thing—" 

"I  know  all  about  it!"  Dolores  butts  in,  smilin'. 
"Mrs.  Kenney — that  cowboy's  wife,  you  know — found 
out  I  was  connected  with  the  affair  and  came  to  me 
this  afternoon.  Imagine  the  poor  little  thing  coming 
all  the  way  from  Oklahoma!  She  wanted  to  prevent 
the  bout — told  me  a  most  pathetic  story.  I'll  tell  you 
about  that  later,  but  I  gave  her  my  word  I  would  try 
and  stop  you  and  her  husband  from  entering  the  ring 
to-night.  I  phoned  all  over  town  and  couldn't  find  you 
and  I  felt  horrid.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her, 
Kane,  she  was  so  tragic!  Well,  I  finally  hit  upon  the 
scheme  of  sending  a  wire  to  your  dressing  room  warn 
ing  you  not  to  enter  the  ring  to-night,  as  the  police 
were  going  to  stop  the  exhibition  on  the  ground  that 
it  was  a  prize  fight.  Wasn't  I  clever?  That's  what 
prevented  the  bout,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes!"  I  almost  hollered,  kickin'  the  Kid  right  in 
the  ankle. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     245 

The  Kid  is  still  chokin',  when  a  page  sticks  his  head 
in  the  room. 

"Telegram  for  Mister  Roberts !"  chants  the  boy. 
"Telegram  for  Mister  Roberts!" 

Curtain ! 


ROUND  TEN 

WHEN  KANE  MET  ABEL 

THERE'S  prob'ly  no  other  competition  in  the  world, 
sportin'  or  otherwise,  which  draws  a  human  gatherin' 
as  miscellaneous  and  interestin'  as  a  prize-fight  crowd. 
Whilst  waitin'  for  the  gladiators  to  enter  the  bull  pen 
the  next  time  you  go  to  a  mill,  sit  back  and  look  around 
at  the  customers,  and  you'll  find  every  trade,  art,  gift, 
science,  business,  profession,  sex,  and  color  represented 
by  one  member  at  the  least.  Bankers  and  bricklayers, 
doctors  and  dock  hands,  millionaires  and  mechanics, 
accountants  and  actors,  etc.  and  etc.,  jostle,  kid,  and 
argue  each  other  purple  in  the  face  over  the  merits  of 
their  respective  favorites. 

To  a  guy  which  thinks  the  Human  Race  is  easily  as 
excitin'  as  the  one  with  the  chariots  in  "Ben  Hur," 
the  crowd  at  a  box  fight  is  generally  worth  the  price 
of  admission  whether  the  bouts  themselves  is  quiet 
or  riots.  Taken  as  a  mass,  the  fans  is  always  with 
the  boy  which  is  winnin'  unless  his  charmin'  vis  and 
vis  is  a  large  local  favorite  or  a  unusual  glutton  for 
punishment.  The  bird  which  can  hit  like  nitro 
glycerine  and  the  tough  baby  which  adores  chastise 
ment  is  the  twin  gods  of  the  mob.  The  remarkably 
clever  but  light-tappin'  boxer,  flittin'  about  the  ring 

246 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     247 

like  one  of  them  classical  dancers  to  avoid  the  gruel, 
and  the  faint-hearted  or  glass- jawed  bimbo  which 
can't  take  it  and  dives  into  a  clinch  when  shook  up,  is 
the  pair  the  gang  wants  assassinated,  and  them  two 
gets  the  raspberry  from  the  minute  they're  introduced 
to  the  attendance  till  they  sneak  or  are  carried  from 
the  ring. 

The  quaint  custom  of  givin'  the  raspberry  to  a  un 
popular  boxer  prob'ly  originated  at  the  ringside  of 
the  One  Round  David-Knockout  Goliath  battle,  which 
terminated  in  Dave  knockin'  his  heavier  opponent's 
head  off  and  thereby  becomin'  one  of  the  first  world's 
champion  scrappers.  For  the  benefit  of  them  which 
thinks  of  the  raspberry  merely  as  a  fruit,  I  will  ex 
plain  that  in  our  set  the  term  "raspberry"  means  a 
continual  uproar  of  violent,  insultin',  uncalled  for, 
vociferous  vocal  abuse.  It's  the  nightmare  of  the 
high-strung,  inexperienced  fighter,  and,  made  nasty 
and  incessant  enough,  will  shake  the  nerves  of  the 
hardest  boiled  veteran.  It's  caused  scores  of  green 
kids  to  lose  heart  and  go  down  to  defeat  before  guys 
they  could  of  knocked  stiff  with  the  greatest  of  ease 
on  a  vacant  lot.  When  you  have  stopped  a  terrific 
right  cross  with  your  features,  and  drag  yourself  up 
off  the  canvas  tryin'  to  peer  through  the  crimson 
cascade  that's  drenchin'  'em,  it  don't  assist  you  a 
particle  to  hear  a  few  thousand  maniacs  callin'  you  a 
big  bum  and  implorin'  the  other  guy  to  murder  you ! 

With  all  its  faults,  however,  the  typical  American 
fight  crowd  is  rarely  anything  more  vicious  than  a  gang 
of  noisy,  overgrown  kids  out  havin'  some  fun.  As  a 
whole,  it's  extremely  fair  in  its  judgment.  If  it  has 


248          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  human  weakness  of  trailin'  with  the  winner,  it's 
also  quick  to  resent  unfair  tactics  and  will  razz  its  local 
favorite  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  it  will  the  visitin' 
boxer  at  the  first  sign  of  foul  fightin'.  No  matter  how 
slovenly  a  exhibition  a  novice  may  put  up,  or  how 
loudly  the  mob  has  jeered  him  whilst  he  was  in  there 
tryin',  he's  sure  of  a  warm  and  rousin'  send-off  when  he 
leaves  the  ring  if  he's  showed  heart  enough  to  stand 
up  to  his  beatin'  like  a  he-man.  And  with  all  its  bed 
lam  of  "Knock  him  kickin',  kid!"  "Go  on,  you  big 
dumb-bell,  put  him  out !"  etc.,  the  gang  is  a  soft-hearted 
bunch  underneath.  A  appeal  for  funds  for  any  cause 
in  the  wide,  wide  world  made  from  the  ring  by  the 
hoarse- voiced  announcer  will  bring  a  shower  of  dough 
from  all  parts  of  the  house  without  hesitation  or  ques 
tion,  as  all  our  standard  charities  know. 

You  can  make  a  inter estin'  study  of  character  by 
lookin'  over  the  different  types  around  you  durin'  a 
particularly  excitin'  scrap.  There's  the  guys  which 
flinches  mechanically  with  every  thuddin'  wallop  that 
lands  on  the  battlers,  and  the  ones  which  snarlin'ly 
grits  their  teeth  and  shoves  out  their  own  jaw  with 
out  hardly  knowin'  it  when  one  of  the  fighters  stops 
one  with  his  chin;  the  boys  which  goes  cuckoo  and 
is  hoarse  for  days  afterward,  and  the  cold-eyed  babies 
which  don't  bat  a  eye  or  let  a  peep  out  of  'em  no 
matter  how  thrillin'  the  thing  gets.  The  blown-in-the- 
flask  fan,  however,  is  the  bird  which  gets  as  close  to 
the  ring  as  his  bank  roll  will  take  him,  beams  on  one 
and  all,  sits  back  with  a  sigh  of  undiluted  joy  and 
bawls:  "Go  on,  you  tramps,  git  mad  and  knock  each 
other  out.  Less  see  somethin'  fall!" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     249 

To  this  bozo  anything  short  of  a  murder  is  a  bum 
fight.  He  craves  blood  and  knockdowns,  or  his 
money  back.  Cater  in'  to  this  type  of  guy's  peculiar 
and  exactin'  taste  almost  cost  Kid  Roberts  the  world's 
heavyweight  championship. 

It  seems  to  be  a  iron-bound  rule  in  the  modern 
American  prize  ring  that  a  new  heavyweight  champ 
be  allowed  at  least  a  year  to  stall  in  before  defendin' 
his  title,  durin'  which  time  he  can  grab  off  slews  of 
sugar  by  appearin'  on  the  stage  and  in  the  movies 
without  a  single  moan  from  the  only  guys  in  a  position 
to  make  him  fight,  to  the  i.  e.,  the  sport  writers.  Title 
holders  in  every  other  class  has  got  to  go  to  the  post 
regularly  every  couple  of  months  against  a  logical 
contender,  or  be  roasted  a  rich  brown  in  the  newspa 
pers  as  "cheese  champions,"  and  the  etc.,  but  the 
reignin'  emperor  of  all  the  heavies  is  always  apparently 
typewriter  proof. 

In  the  case  of  Kid  Roberts,  how  the  so  ever,  they 
was  really  no  heavy  in  sight  at  the  time  he  win  the 
the  title  which  could  of  gave  him  as  much  as  a  brisk 
workout.  He'd  flattened  all  the  good  ones  on  his  way 
to  the  top,  and  it  was  nearly  a  year  later  before  we 
signed  to  step  twenty  frames  with  Jack  Enright,  then 
a  sensational  newcomer.  This  was  the  first  of  the 
only  two  bouts  the  Kid  ever  fought  as  champion  and 
his  next  to  final  battle  in  the  ring.  Meanwhile,  we 
assassinated  time  by  givin'  exhibitions  with  the  circus 
I  spoke  of  before  and  appearin'  in  a  movie  at  Loose 
Angeles,  Califilmia,  for  more  large  gobs  of  jack.  I'll 
tell  you  about  the  Kid's  last  two  brawls  the  next  time 


250          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

we  get  together — this  evenin's  talk  will  be  devoted  to 
his  one  amazin'  adventure  as  a  movie  hero. 

Movie  cameras  shootin'  at  the  ringside  of  a  regu 
lar  prize  fight,  by  the  way,  has  never  made  no  hit 
with  the  battlers,  though,  of  course,  the  sugar  they 
get  therefrom  has.  The  presence  of  the  camera  filtnin' 
a  man's  every  move  has  a  tendency  to  make  him  want 
to  pose,  and,  caught  off  guard  for  a  fatal  second  as  a 
result,  he  may  be  knocked  stiff. 

On  the  ways  out  to  the  State  where  all  the  good 
little  actors  hope  to  go,  the  streets  bein'  paved  with 
gold  and  all  the  angels  wavin'  movie  contracts,  me 
and  the  Kid  is  kept  supplied  with  giggles  by  Knockout 
Burns,  a  tough  old  war  horse  which  I  brung  along  to 
keep  the  champion  in  condition.  It  was  the  first  time 
Knockout  had  ever  rode  in  a  Pullman  where  the 
doors  was  on  each  end  instead  of  the  sides,  and  he 
spent  most  of  his  time  on  the  observation  platform 
markin'  off  the  various  slabs  on  his  time-table  as  we 
breezed  through  'em,  remarkin'  that  like  as  not  the 
engineer  would  hold  a  couple  of  these  burgs  out  on 
him  if  he  didn't  check  them  up.  The  first  night  he 
crawled  in  to  his  upper  berth  he  laid  awake  two  hours 
waitin'  for  a  Chink  to  come  along  with  the  hop  lay 
out  he  figured  went  with  it,  and,  not  bein'  able  to 
sleep,  he  spent  the  night  heavin'  the  gallopin'  domi 
noes  with  the  porters,  winnin'  $180  by  daylight.  In 
the  diner,  when  the  waiter  tells  him  his  oysters  is  out 
in  the  kitchen  gettin'  stewed,  Knockout  puts  forty 
grouches  in  good  humor  by  askin'  is  they  any  objection 
to  him  goin'  out  in  the  kitchen  and  gettin'  stewed  with 
'em.  Goin'  through  Arizona,  the  Kid  remarks  that 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     251 

we're  skirtin'  the  largest  copper  State,  and  Knockout 
says  he  always  thought  the  largest  coppers  come  from 
Ireland.  And  when  we  hissed  through  Yaggy,  Kansas, 
this  dumb-bell  claims  that  they  ain't  no  place  in  the 
world  actually  had  a  handle  like  that,  but  that's  prob'ly 
the  name  the  town  fights  under. 

This  guy  win  the  cement  hairbrush,  hey? 

When  we  fin'ly  docked  at  the  Land  of  Flowers 
and  Sunshine,  Sweet  Mamma,  how  the  rain  was 
comin'  down !  We  swum  out  to  a  taxi  and  Knockout 
Burns  points  out  the  cloudburst  to  the  guy  at  the 
wheel,  askin'  him  if  this  was  a  sample  of  the  deli 
cious  climate  which  all  the  Calif ornians  raves  about 
when  they  come  East  for  a  slummin'  trip.  The 
chauffeur  shakes  six  gallons  of  rain  out  of  his  hat 
and  looks  up  at  the  sky  whilst  the  drops  bounce  off 
his  face.  "Hump !"  he  remarks.  "Darned  if  we  ain't 
havin'  a  high  fog !" 

Bloodshed  was  avoided  by  throwin'  Knockout  into 
the  back  of  the  cab  and  slammin'  the  door. 

But  it  was  all  different  the  followin'  morn,  and  as 
we  rolled  out  to  Hollywood  in  the  beautiful  warm  sun 
shine  and  the  comely  tourin'  car  the  movie  company 
sent  to  the  hotel  after  us,  passin'  through  rows  of  shel- 
terin'  palms,  bloomin'  flowers,  dumfounded  tourists 
which  has  never  been  nowheres,  but  which  repeats  over 
and  over :  "I  never  seen  nothin'  like  this  in  Europe !" 
and  dazzlin'  movie  queens  which  looks  even  better  off 
the  screen — well,  even  the  hard-boiled  Knockout  Burns 
leans  back  in  the  cushions  and  gasps :  "Say,  this  slab's 
a  dude  of  a  burg,  hey  ?" 

Fin'ly  we  get  to  the  studio,  and  they  is  a  good-sized 


252  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

mob  on  hand  to  lamp  the  world's  champion.  As  out 
side  the  ring,  Kid  Roberts  looked  like  anything  in 
the  world  but  a  prize  fighter,  half  the  witnesses  pegged 
Knockout  Burns  for  the  title  holder,  and  this  big  bozo 
stood  up  in  the  car  and  took  eight  bows  before  I 
yanked  him  down  in  the  seat.  We  hold  a  short  re 
ception,  and  then  over  comes  a  little  guy  entitled  Cuth- 
bert  Van  Dyke,  whose  name  I  hear  is  really  Luther 
O'Brien  and  who's  knowed  around  the  lot  as  "Joe." 
He  walks  right  up  to  Knockout  Burns  and  grabs  his 
hand.  "Well,  well,  well,"  he  says.  "This  is  certainly 
a  treat.  So  this  is  the  famous  Kid  Roberts,  eh  ?  Well, 
well,  well!  How  d'ye  like  California?" 

"Fried !"  says  Knockout  with  a  goofy  grin.  "What 
time  does  Charlie  Chaplin  come  to  work?" 

At  this  critical  point,  whilst  the  hysterics  is  at  their 
height  and  Van  Dyke's  face  is  redder  than  fifty  cents' 
worth  of  tomatoes,  Kid  Roberts  steps  into  the  breeches 
and  introduces  us  all  around.  Van  Dyke  turns  out  to 
be  the  guy  which  is  goin'  to  direct  the  Kid's  movie, 
and  he  seems  dumfounded  at  the  way  the  boy  handles 
the  President's  english,  and  likewise  because  the  champ 
looks  and  acts  like  he  was  more  used  to  a  dress  suit 
than  fightin'  trunks.  Amongst  the  others  which  shares 
our  charmin'  director's  surprise  is  Nada  Nice,  which 
is  carded  to  be  the  Kid's  leadin'  lady  in  the  forth- 
comin'  thriller.  The  fair  Nada  had  evidently  expected 
to  be  at  the  loss  how  to  put  a  world's  champion  prize 
fighter  at  his  ease,  but  before  they  talked  ten  minutes 
Kid  Roberts — late  of  Yale  and  Fifth  Avenue — was 
tryin'  to  make  Nada  feel  comfortable. 

They  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Nada  Nice  was 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     253 

all  her  name  suggested.  Yes,  boys  and  girls,  Nada 
was  a  pulse  quickener  of  the  first  water,  and  it  was 
comical  to  watch  Knockout  Burns,  lock  jawed  for  once, 
gazin'  at  her  with  his  mouth  as  open  as  a  Memphis 
crap  game  and  his  eyes  a  foot  from  his  head.  The 
beauteous  damsel  favored  the  battle-scarred  Knockout 
with  a  scornful  quirk  of  a  too  red  lip,  and  trained  her 
heavy  guns  on  Kid  Roberts,  which  never  give  her  a 
tumble,  thereby  allowin'  Nada  to  enjoy  a  sensation  she 
prob'ly  hadn't  had  since  she  was  fourteen  years  old. 
You  see,  the  Kid  was  signed  up  for  all  of  it  with 
Dolores,  which  could  of  spotted  Venus  five  cans  of 
complexion  cream  and  then  made  the  noted  model  look 
like  a  overworked  dishwasher!  If  you  owned  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  would  you  get  a  thrill  out  of  gazin'  upon 
a  glass  of  water?  Well,  that  was  the  Kid's  position 
— get  me? 

How  the  so  ever,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Kid  Rob 
erts  showed  no  indication  of  gettin'  chills  and  fever 
from  watchin'  Nada,  I  felt  they  was  a  bust  comin' 
before  we  got  through  elevatin'  the  deaf  and  dumb 
drama.  I  knew  Nada  wouldn't  be  happy  till  the 
handsome  world's  champion  got  lured  into  gettin' 
personal  so's  she  could  bawl  him  out,  and  thus  get 
revenge  for  him  askin'  her  what  she  thought  of 
Wagner's  Rheingold  and  trappin'  her  into  answerin' 
that  she  had  favored  Budweiser  before  Keeley  went 
crazy  and  cured  the  entire  country.  Then  again, 
Knockout  Burns  was  overboard  over  her  and  would 
have  to  be  disposed  of,  and  I  had  caught  Van  Dyke 
frownin'  heartily  at  Nada  every  time  she  tried  out  a 
grin  on  the  Kid.  On  the  top  of  all  this,  they  was  a 


254  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

chance  of  Dolores  Brewster  herself  comin'  to  Cali 
fornia  to  spend  the  winter,  and  she  was  just  broad- 
minded  enough  to  go  up  in  the  air  sixty-four  miles 
the  first  time  she  seen  the  Kid  and  Nada  clinched, 
movie  or  no  movie!  So  you  can  see  that  things  was 
set  for  a  jam,  and  said  jam  was  had,  but  it  was  a  twist 
which  had  never  entered  my  dome  which  caused  it. 

Well,  after  we  have  decided  to  adjourn  the  mutual 
admiration  society,  we  trip  over  to  Van  Dyke's  office 
for  the  purposes  of  havin'  the  scenario  of  the  Kid's 
movie  read  at  us.  The  picture  is  called  "The  Knock 
out,"  and  they  is  apparently  everything  in  it  but  the 
battle  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  landin'  of  the  Pilgrim 
family.  Action?  You  tell  'em,  camera,  I'm  over 
exposed  !  Van  Dyke  and  his  merry  men,  includin'  the 
composer  of  the  thing,  seemed  to  think  it  a  wow,  but 
Kid  Roberts  begin  waggin'  his  head  after  the  first  few 
seconds,  and  his  lip  begins  to  curl. 

"What's  the  idea?"  butts  in  the  director  on  the 
author's  readin',  speakin'  to  the  Kid.  "Don't  it  hit 
you  ?" 

"A  bit  absurd,  don't  you  think?"  says  the  Kid 
politely.  "That — eh — throwing  those  fellows  over  the 
cliff  and—" 

"Never  mind,  Kid,"  pipes  up  Knockout  Burns,  with 
a  wink  at  Nada,  "what  do  you  care  ?  It's  all  fun !" 

"All  fun!"  howls  Van  Dyke,  jumpin'  up  and  glarin' 
at  him.  "D'ye  know  that  it's  gonna  set  us  back  about 
sixty  thousand  berries  to  shoot  this?  All  fun,  eh? 
You  try  to  clown  this,  you  dumb-bell,  and — " 

"Burns,  shut  up !"  orders  Kid  Roberts,  smilin'.  "Pay 
no  attention  to  him,"  he  goes  on,  turnin'  to  the  enraged 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     255 

Van  Dyke:  "Go  on  and  read  the  rest  of  this  idiotic — 
eh — this  story.  I'm  anxious  to  hear  the  climax." 

"Sure!"  says  Knockout  Burns,  waggin'  a  finger  at 
Van  Dyke.  "Quit  holdin'  out  on  us.  I  don't  think 
they's  enough  murders  in  it  myself.  In  the,  now, 
Births  of  the  Nation,  they  was — " 

I  clamped  both  hands  over  his  mouth  and,  chokin' 
back  a  howl,  Van  Dyke  smoothes  his  hair,  turns  to  the 
Kid  and  continues. 

"Now,"  he  says,  "here's  the  big  wow!  You're 
fightin'  the  English  champeen,  and,  as  you  remember 
from  what  has  gone  before,  your  life,  honor,  and  the 
woman  you  love  is  at  stake — see  ?  One  of  your  seconds 
has  been  bribed  by  the  Secret  Twelve  to  slip  dope  in 
your  water  bottle — see?  All  right,  now  you  come  up 
for  the  last  round,  suddenly  dazed  and  groggy — see? 
The  crowd  is  goin'  cuckoo — you  get  floored  twice — 
stagger  around  helplessly,  about  to  be  knocked  cold — 
see?  Then  Miss  Nice  appears  in  your  corner — there's 
a  shot  showin'  her  fightin'  her  way  through  the  mob 
down  the  aisle — see?  As  the  Englishman  is  about  to 
knock  you  stiff,  you  see  her — your  face  brightens  up 
— Warn! — you  knock  the  Englishman  through  the 
ropes — the  Secret  Twelve  is  beaten — the  girl's  father 
is  saved  from  the  chair — you  win  her  and  the  cham- 
peenship  of  the  world!" 

Van  Dyke  stops,  breathless,  and  Knockout  Burns 
stirs  in  his  chair. 

"And  then  what?"  he  says. 

Four  guys  grabbed  our  charmin'  director,  but  not 
before  he  had  throwed  the  telephone  book  at  Knock 
out's  head.  "Take  'at  big  stiff  outa  here,  or  I'll  cook 


256  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

him !"  shrieks  Van  Dyke,  reachin'  for  his  back  pocket 
— and  Knockout  Burns  breezed. 

Bright  and  early  the  next  mornin' — that  is,  the 
mornin'  was  bright  and  we  was  early — we  start  shootin' 
"Kid  Roberts,  Undisputed  Champion  Heavyweight 
Boxer  of  the  World,  supported  by  a  Super-Cast  in  the 
Super-Production,  THE  KNOCKOUT.  The  Great 
est  Moving  Picture  Since  Mona  Lisa  Disappeared!" 

Both  me  and  the  fascinatin'  Knockout  Burns  was 
drafted  for  this  frolic,  prob'ly  to  keep  us  quiet.  I 
took  off  the  exactin'  role  of  a  spectator  in  the  big 
fight  scene.  They  hired  a  regular  actor  to  play  the 
Kid's  manager,  on  account  of  'em  havin'  several  im 
portant  scenes  together.  Can  you  imagine  that,  with 
me  right  there  in  person?  Knockout  Burns  was  one 
of  the  supers  of  the  Super-Production.  That  day  we 
also  had  the  pleasure  of  meetin'  the  assistant  villain, 
to  the  viz.,  the  guy  which  the  Kid  was  scheduled  to 
knock  for  a  row  of  ash  cans  in  the  film  brawl.  Ac- 
cordin'  to  the  recipe  for  the  movie,  this  bimbo  was 
merely  a  slight  ingredient,  but  before  we  got  through 
he  promoted  himself  to  actin'  chief  scoundrel  and 
ruffian  plenipotentiary. 

Van  Dyke  comes  over  to  us,  plastered  with  grins. 

"Well,  we're  certain  lucky !"  he  says.  "I  got  Young 
Hamilton  to  play  that  fight  scene  with  you,  Kid.  I 
wanted  a  man  who  looks  like  a  fighter — in  fact,  who 
is  a  fighter — and  yet  has  some  intelligence — no  offense, 
Kid,  no  offense — and  I  got  him!" 

"If  you  wanted  a  guy  which  looks  like  a  fighter  and 
is  a  fighter,  what's  the  matter  with  me,  hey?"  says 
Knockout  Burns. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     257 

Van  Dyke  snorts. 

"He's  also  got  to  look  like  a  human  bein' !"  he 
answers.  Then  he  turns  to  us :  "Of  course  you  know 
Young  Hamilton?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  says  the  Kid. 

"I  think  I  smacked  a  guy  down  in  a  round  at 
Butte  last  year  by  that  name,"  remarks  Knock 
out. 

"You  never  smacked  this  baby  down!"  says  Van 
Dyke.  "Young  Hamilton  was  amateur  heavyweight 
champ  of  the  Coast  for  two  years — up  to  last  year, 
in  fact — when  somebody  picked  him  for  a  type  in  a 
picture  and  since  then  he's  done  pretty  well  for  him 
self  on  the  different  lots.  He's  just  finished  a  picture 
with  Stella  Sweetish  and  I'm  gonna  sew  him  to  a 
contract  when  he  gets  through  with  yours.  But  the 
point  is  Hamilton  was  never  stopped  as  a  amateur, 
he's  always  in  condition  and  he  can  give  you  a  pretty 
stiff  argument  for  enough  footage  to  make  it  look 
good.  And  this  here  prize  fight  has  got  to  look  like 
a  fight,  get  me?  Boxin'  fans  all  over  the  country 
are  gonna  flock  to  see  this  picture  and  you  and  me 
knows  that  the  rest  of  the  filum  will  run  for  the  end 
book — what  they're  comin'  to  see  is  the  heavyweight 
champ  action  with  gloves  on  in  a  ring!  Unless  this 
fight  knocks  'em  off  their  seats  right  into  the  aisles, 
they're  gonna  laugh  me  to  death,  and  it  won't  do  you 
no  good  either,  Kid.  Well,  I'm  gonna  drive  them 
cuckoo  with  this  box  fight  you  can  bet  your  left  lung 
on  that  part  of  it!  Fight  scenes  is  my  dish — I  made 
my  reputation  on  'em  and  I'm  gonna  goal  'em  with  this 
one.  Two  weeks  after  I  release  this  baby,  they'll  have 


258  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

forgot    whether    Griffith   makes    movies    or    biscuits ! 
Now — wait  a  minute,  here's  Hamilton." 

He  calls  across  the  lot  and  Monsieur  Hamilton 
steps  away  from  some  girls  he  was  chattin'  with  and 
strolls  over. 

I  liked  this  bird  at  the  go  in  and  I  know  the  Kid 
did.  Perhaps  if  it  hadn't  been  for  ravishin'  Nada 
Nice  we  might  of  all  become  pals.  It  only  goes  to 
show  how  a  good-looker  can  ball  everything  up,  as 
Adam  was  heard  to  mutter  on  the  ways  out  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden. 

Except  for  the  telltale  dent  in  his  beak,  Hamilton 
looked  no  more  like  a  pug  than  the  Kid  did — in  fact, 
they  was  much  the  same  type.  He  was  every  bit  as 
big  as  Roberts,  about  the  same  age,  and  with  all  his 
disarmin',  white-toothed,  kid  grin  he  had  a  rugged 
businesslike  appearance.  Hamilton  looked  genuinely 
tickled  to  shake  hands  with  the  world's  champion  and 
said  so,  and  him  and  the  Kid  was  gettin'  along  first- 
class,  with  little  Van  Dyke  rubbin'  his  hands  together 
and  tellin'  'em  to  get  used  to  each  other,  when  along 
come  Nada.  Without  no  preliminaries  she  hooks  her 
arm  in  Hamilton's,  flashes  him  a  dazzlin'  smile,  and, 
completely  ignorin'  the  rest  of  us,  tells  him  to  come 
on  and  show  her  the  breathin'  exercises  he  was  tellin' 
her  about.  Hamilton  gets  a  bit  red,  stammers  a 
apology,  hesitates — and  she  drags  him  off,  flickin' 
a  short,  cold  glance  at  the  Kid.  Van  Dyke  looks  after 
'em,  frownin'. 

"Eh — don't  mind  Nada,  Kid,  she's  always  that  way," 
he  says.  "You  know  these  stars — gotta  humor  'em. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     259 

Eh — she's  just  like  a  baby — don't  mean  a  thing  wrong 
by  that — eh — maybe  a  bit  peeved  over — well,  I  gotta 
run  along.  Be  in  callin'  distance !" 

And  he  beats  it. 

Right  away  I  get  a  chill.  I  was  wishin'  Miss  Dolores 
Brewster  was  in  Loose  Angeles,  believe  me ! 

Knockout  Burns  clears  his  throat. 

"This  Hamilton  guy,"  he  snarls.  "Where  does  he 
rate  that  stuff?  Amateur  champ,  hey?  Well,  there's 
one  bozo  I  can  take  and  I'm  tellin'  North  America 
that  me  and  that  bird  will  go  to  the  post  before  we 
knock  off  work  here!  Where  does  he  fit  to  grab  off 
that  Jane,  hey?  " 

Poor  Knockout  Burns.  The  only  guy  which  didn't 
figure  at  all ! 

Still  lookin'  after  Hamilton  and  Nada,  the  Kid  has 
a  odd,  half  smile  on  his  face. 

"It  must  be  that  this  Nada  person  thinks  you  don't 
like  her,  Kid,  hey?"  I  remarks  uneasily. 

"No,"  says  the  Kid,  suddenly  showin'  astonishin' 
shrewdness.  "It's  because  she  thinks  I  do!"  Then 
he  laughs  and  speaks  kinda  to  himself :  "This  will 
amuse  Dolores — Lord,  I'll  have  a  book  to  write  her 
to-night !" 

I  guess  he  was  safe,  hey? 

Well,  boys  and  girls,  I  got  to  admit  that,  as  a  movie 
star,  Kid  Roberts  was  a  wonderful  box  fighter!  The 
boy  screened  as  well  as  Mary  Pickford's  husband,  but 
he  was  no  actor  and  that  was  that.  This  make-believe 
stuff  hit  him  as  bein'  the  height  of  ridiculous,  and  he'd 
come  in  for  his  rub-down  after  a  tough  day  before 


260          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  camera,  cussin'  me  for  signin'  him  up  as  a 
matinee  idol  and  remarkin'  that  never  before  in  his 
life  had  he  felt  like  such  a  darn  fool.  They 
had  a  terrible  time  gettin'  him  to  use  make-up,  and 
when  Nada  Nice  first  throwed  her  soft  arms  around 
his  manly  neck,  as  per  the  scenario,  you  could  see  the 
glow  from  the  Kid's  face  in  Brazil.  This  brung  a 
sneer  from  Nada  and  a  involuntary  giggle  from  Hamil 
ton — his  first  mistake. 

But  it  was  in  the  fight-scene  rehearsals  that  Kid 
Roberts  showed  he  was  not  born  for  the  movies.  The 
champ  had  never  stalled  in  his  life  and  he  couldn't 
stall  now — that  is,  he  couldn't  pull  the  wallops  he 
sent  at  Hamilton  or  flop  to  the  mat  as  if  he'd  been 
floored  with  a  punch  and  make  either  of  'em  look  like 
the  real  thing.  He  was  no  faker,  and  of  course  he 
was  careful  not  to  hurt  Hamilton,  with  the  result  that 
many's  the  foot  of  film  was  throwed  away  on  bouts 
which  wouldn't  of  give  a  fight  fan  any  more  thrill 
than  you  give  a  ex-manicurist  when  you  ask  her  can 
you  hold  her  hand.  Van  Dyke  tore  his  hair  and  raved 
all  over  the  lot,  but  they  was  nothin'  stirrin'.  The 
Kid  wouldn't  take  advantage  of  Hamilton  and  tear 
into  him  for  real  and  he  wasn't  enough  of  a  actor  to 
fake  the  thing  well,  so,  as  the  French  remarks,  what 
would  you  ? 

Right  here  I  would  like  to  say  that  this  Monsieur 
Hamilton  was  far  from  a  set-up  for  any  man.  Big, 
rugged,  fast,  in  perfect  condition,  and  a  two-handed 
puncher,  he  looked  capable  of  extendin'  the  Kid  in 
any  kind  of  a  fight.  As  far  as  that  part  of  it  goes, 
they's  plenty  of  husky,  clever  guys,  which  never 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     261 

fought  for  pennies  in  their  lives  but  could  make 
things  interestin'  if  they  had  to  for  any  of  our 
champs  from  fly-weight  to  heavy — as  many's  the  pro 
fessional  leather  pusher  has  found  out ! 

One  mornin'  Kid  Roberts  and  Young  Hamilton  is 
rehearsin'  this  fight  scene  with  Van  Dyke  dancin' 
around  'em  bellerin'  for  action  and  screamin'  that 
they're  mixin'  it  like  a  pair  of  room-mates,  when  sud 
denly  the  little  director  stops  in  disgust  and  calls  it 
off  for  the  day.  /  thought  the  boys  was  goin'  un 
usually  good,  but  Van  Dyke  wanted  a  murder.  As  the 
Kid  passes  me  on  the  ways  to  the  shower,  I  notice  a 
small  lump  on  his  right  cheek  bone  and,  in  some  sur 
prise,  I  remarked  on  it. 

"This  fellow  is  tough!"  grins  the  Kid,  noddin'  over 
his  shoulder  at  Hamilton.  Van  Dyke  grabs  his  arm. 

"Look  here!"  he  says,  lowerin'  his  voice.  "There's 
no  use  of  us  wastin'  time  and  money  rehearsin'  this 
thing  any  longer.  I'm  gonna  shoot  the  fight  scene 
in  a  couple  of  days,  and  when  I  give  you  the  office 
/  want  you  to  knock  Hamilton  stiff — get  me?  No 
fakin'  this  time,  understand;  let  him  have  it!  It  ain't 
gonna  kill  him  and  he's  gettin'  well  paid  for  it.  I'll 
get  a  coupla  good  shots  out  of  the  thing,  anyways!" 

The  Kid  shakes  the  hand  off  his  arm  and  regards 
him  coldly. 

"You're  a  poor  judge  of  type,  Van  Dyke,"  he  says. 
"Of  course,  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort !" 

Van  Dyke  give  a  short,  nasty  little  laugh  as  the 
Kid  passes  on. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  says,  presentin'  me  with  a  funny 
look.  "Nevertheless,  he's  gonna  knock  Hamilton  out !" 


262          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

At  this  interestin'  point  Knockout  Burns  come 
slouchin'  up  with  a  old  sweater  throwed  over  his 
shoulders,  ready  for  his  daily  workout  with  the  Kid. 
He  sees  Hamilton,  also  in  ring  togs,  talkin'  to  Nada 
Nice,  which  same  is  lookin'  up  into  the  big  fellow's 
face  like  it  was  the  Garden  of  the  Gods  and  she  was 
gettin'  her  first  flash  at  it.  Knockout  growls  and  his 
thick  upper  lip  draws  away  from  the  snaggled  teeth 
underneath. 

"Look  at  the  big  goof,"  he  sneers,  talkin'  to  me, 
but  purposely  raisin'  his  voice.  "Always  posin'  in 
front  of  some  skirt!  I  wisht  they'd  let  me  step  a 
couple  of  frames  with  that  bozo — you  can  tell  Russia 
/  wouldn't  hold  him  up  like  the  Kid  does.  Maybe  I 
ain't  no  world's  champion  or  the  like,  but  I'm  cham 
pion  of  that  guy,  anyways !" 

A  couple  of  birds  looked  around  curiously  and  a 
camera  man  laughed.  I  seen  Nada's  eyes  sparkle  as 
Hamilton  stared  at  Knockout  Burns  and  then  back  at 
her.  He  forced  a  smile  and  just  for  a  instant  a  look 
flashed  in  Nada's  eyes — the  look  that  is  a  woman's  way 
of  callin'  you  whatever  particular  name  makes  you 
want  to  kill !  Hamilton  walks  over  to  Knockout  Burns 
and  deliberately  looks  him  up  and  down. 

"Ah — like  to — ah — warm  up  a  bit,  while  you're 
waitin'  for  your — ah — master  ?"  he  says,  coolly  enough. 

Knockout  Burns  tore  the  sweater  off  his  shoulders 
with  one  snatch,  licked  his  lips,  and  says  "Aaaaah!" 
with  the  relish  of  a  rummy  downin'  a  suddenly  dis 
covered  shot  of  bonded  hooch. 

Right  then  I  went  off  Nada  Nice  for  life!  For 
from  that  minute  this  Young  Hamilton,  which  both  me 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  263 

and  the  Kid  was  beginnin'  to  like,  was  changed  from 
a  good  guy  to  a  nasty,  grand-stand  play  in',  insultin' 
fathead  which  wasn't  cured  till — but  wait ! 

Into  the  ring  where  a  little  while  before  Kid  Roberts 
and  Hamilton  had  been  rehearsin'  their  phony  fight 
climbs  Nada's  boy  friend  and  Knockout  Burns.  Car 
penters,  camera  men,  supers,  electricians,  and  what  not 
dropped  what  ever  they  was  doin',  of  course,  and 
crowded  around  'em,  and  they  was  plenty  more  come 
a  runnin'  from  all  parts  of  the  lot.  Nada,  how  the  so 
ever,  took  the  air. 

Well,  I  figured  here  was  a  good  opportunity  to  see 
what  Hamilton  really  had  and  just  how  much  of  a 
chance  the  Kid  was  takin'  with  him.  Knockout  Burns 
was  a  tough  old  battle-scarred  veteran  of  hundreds  of 
gory  melees.  He  packed  a  wicked  right  and  had 
stopped  a  lot  of  good  men  before  Kid  Roberts  cut 
him  short  with  a  one-round  knockout  on  the  champ's 
way  to  the  top.  I  decided  I'd  stop  the  bout  the  first 
time  Hamilton  looked  in  trouble,  as  I  didn't  want  the 
young  man  punished  by  anybody  connected  with  us. 
With  that  in  mind,  I  hopped  over  the  ropes  and  asked 
'em  both  if  they  was  any  objection  to  me  refereein'. 
Knockout  laughed,  and  Hamilton,  after  a  glance  at 
me  which  was  very  brief  but  likewise  very  penetratin', 
shrugs  his  shoulders  and  says  it  was  O.  K.  with 
him. 

Van  Dyke,  chargin'  into  the  ring  with  a  gang  of 
huskies,  stopped  the  fight  in  the  second  round  whilst 
I  was  tollin'  off  the  fatal  seconds  over  a  dazed  and 
battered  heavyweight,  which,  restin'  on  one  knee, 


264          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

was  waitin'  to  hear  "nine"  before  resumin'  a  hope 
less  argument.  The  heavy's  name  was  Knockout 
Burns. 

Boys  and  girls,  you  ain't  no  more  surprised  than  I 
was.  Any  doubts  I  had  with  the  regard  to  Young 
Hamilton's  ability  as  a  box  fighter  vanished  in  the 
first  round  of  that  short  brawl.  The  ex-amateur  champ 
made  a  monkey  out  of  Burns — made  this  tough  bird 
look  absolutely  silly.  He  glided  around  the  enraged 
Knockout,  pepperin'  him  with  stingin'  rights  and  lefts, 
bringin'  him  up  gaspin'  with  vicious  smashes  to  the 
heart  and  wind,  feintin'  him  into  futile  knots,  pickin' 
off  his  well-meant  returns  whilst  they  was  still  in  the 
air,  and  then,  goin'  out  to  finish  his  man  in  the  second 
round,  he  floored  him  twice  before  Van  Dyke  stopped 
it.  Half  a  dozen  guys  was  required  to  hold  Burns, 
which  raved,  cussed,  and  begged  to  have  the  bout  go 
on.  He  bellered  that  he  wasn't  hurt,  that  he  was  just 
gettin'  warmed  up,  and  that  he  always  looked  bad  in 
the  first  couple  of  rounds  on  account  of  not  bein'  a 
boxer,  but  a  slugger — all  of  which  was  true.  But  Van 
Dyke  waved  him  away,  threatenin'  to  bar  him  from 
the  lot  if  he  didn't  get  off  the  scene.  However,  when 
I  caught  the  little  director's  eye,  he  looked  to  me  to  be 
tickled  silly. 

Kid  Roberts  was  very  sore  when  he  heard  about 
this  muss  and  bawled  out  Knockout  Burns  to  a  fare- 
thee-well,  promisin'  to  can  him  if  he  started  anything 
with  anybody  else  whilst  we  was  there.  Then  the  Kid 
apologized  to  Hamilton  for  Knockout's  runnin'  amuck, 
and  Hamilton,  no  longer  the  laughin',  good-natured 
kid,  smiled  faintly,  murmured  somethin'  about  bein' 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     265 

able  to  take  care  of  himself,  and  walked  away.     Kid 
Roberts  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  says  nothin'. 

As  the  time  drawed  near  for  the  filmin'  of  the  large 
fight  scene,  the  indications  was  that  a  excitin'  time 
would  be  had  by  all.  The  Kid's  nerves  had  been 
about  shot  to  pieces  by  the  constant  abuse  of  little 
Van  Dyke  regardin'  his  actin'  and  the  deliberate,  silent 
contempt  with  which  Nada  Nice  treated  him  when 
they  wasn't  workin'  together.  Young  Hamilton  had 
got  so  upstage  you  couldn't  talk  to  him  at  all,  and  it 
was  plain  and  also  amusin'  to  everybody  on  the  lot 
that  he  had  went  cuckoo  over  Nada,  which  seemed 
to  take  that  fact  for  granted — bein'  the  type  of  Jane 
which  cannot  understand  why  every  guy  she  meets 
don't  go  out  and  commit  suicide  at  the  thoughts  of 
havin'  to  live  without  her. 

Knockout  Burns  kept  after  Hamilton  every  time 
they  got  within  speakin'  distance  on  the  lot  and  the  Kid 
wasn't  around.  He  rode  that  boy  from  mornin'  till 
night,  darin'  him  to  slip  out  somewheres  and  go  to  the 
post  with  him  again,  callin'  him  a  quitter  and  a  big 
false  alarm  which  he  would  murder  if  he  ever  got  him 
in  a  ring  for  a  finish  fight.  Lookin'  back,  I  often  won 
der  how  Hamilton  stood  it,  but  stand  it  he  did,  con- 
tentin'  himself  with  merely  smilin'  sarcastically  at  the 
blah-blahin'  Knockout  and  never  a  word  of  a  come 
back.  Frequently  the  Knockout's  remarks  got  so  raw 
that  I  shut  him  up  myself,  but  beyond  a  tightenin'  of 
jaw  and  a  glintin'  of  eye  once  or  twice,  Hamilton  never 
give  him  a  tumble. 

The  day  they're  goin'  to  shoot  the  fight  between 
the  Kid  and  Hamilton,  which  winds  up  the  picture,  I'm 


266          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

stumblin'  around  through  the  scenes  on  one  of  the 
stages  wishin'  it  was  all  over,  when  I  hear  the  voices 
of  Hamilton  and  Nada  Nice.  I  am  not  no  keyhole 
listener,  but  they  was  talkin'  about  Kid  Roberts,  and 
without  no  apologies  I  will  tell  you  that  I  stopped  for 
a  earful. 

" — It  would  be  too  crooked !"  Hamilton's  sayin'.  "I 
don't  want  to  even  think  about  it,  Nada.  The  way 
to  do  that  would  be  to  challenge  Roberts  openly  and 
meet  him  in  a  fair  fight,  where  he'd  know  I  was  doing 
my  best  to  win.  This  way  it's —  Oh,  it's  all  wrong ! 
He'll  be  unprepared,  unsuspecting — no,  I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  like  that.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  fact  that 
I've  got  to  play  my  part  in  this  thing  to-day,  pretend 
he  has  knocked  me  out,  I'd — well,  Nada,  I'd  whip 
him — a  thing  that  I'm  as  sure  I  can  do  as  I  am  that 
my  name  is  Hamilton!" 

"And  be  heavyweight  champion  of  the  world — with 
all  the  fame  and  fortune  that  goes  with  it!"  breathes 
this  vamp,  and  I  can  imagine  the  eye  work  she's  doin' 
on  friend  Hamilton.  "Well,  do  as  you  like,"  she  goes 
on,  in  a  voice  that  was  like  a  kiss.  "I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I  would  suggest  anything — er — wrong.  But 
if  I  were  a  man  and  had  this  opportunity — " 

Her  voice  trails  off  suddenly  and  I  hear  a  new  one — 
Van  Dyke's. 

"Hello,  folks !"  he  greets  'em.  "Nada — over  on  that 
drawin'  room  set  for  yours.  I  want  a  close-up  of 
you  and  Kid  Roberts  before  he  starts  for  the  ring. 
Hurry  up,  I'll  be  right  over — got  somethin'  to  tell 
Hamilton." 

I  hear  Nada  trippin'  away  and  then  Van  Dyke  again. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     267 

"Hamilton,"  he  says,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "look  out 
for  yourself  in  this  fight  with  Kid  Roberts.  I  got  this 
straight  from  headquarters  and  it's  no  josh.  This 
big  stiff  is  sore  at  the  way  you  trimmed  his  sparrin' 
partner,  and,  well — you  know  how  Nada's  acted — and 
he's  gonna  try  and  deliberately  cut  you  to  pieces  to 
give  the  gang  a  laugh!  Watch  your  step  and — " 

Hamilton  cuts  in. 

"All  right — thanks !"  he  says.  "I'll  watch  out  and — 
you  watch  me!  This  is  better  than  I  hoped  for  and 
I'm  going  to  give  this  fellow  the  surprise  of  his  life!" 

On  top  of  Hamilton's  retreatin'  footsteps  come  Van 
Dyke's  short  laugh,  and  then  I  stepped  from  behind 
the  scenery,  right  into  him.  He  changed  colors  like  a 
lizard  and  greatly  reminded  me  of  one,  for  that  matter. 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  I  snarls.  "Come  on,  make 
it  snappy  and  don't  stall — I  heard  the  whole  layout! 
Are  you  tryin'  to  frame  Kid  Roberts,  you  little  rat? 
You  know  the  Kid's  got  no  idea  of  knockin'  Hamil 
ton's  head  off.  Why,  he'd  no  more  hurt  that  guy  than 
he'd—" 

"That's  what's  the  matter!"  butts  in  Van  Dyke  ex 
citedly.  "That's  exactly  the  trouble!  But  if  Hamil 
ton  comes  at  him  doin'  his  best,  why,  the  Kid  will 
have  to  knock  his  head  off,  won't  he?" 

"He  might  have  to  stop  him — yes,"  I  admits. 
"But—" 

"But  nothin' !"  says  Van  Dyke.  "You  got  some 
brains,  ain't  you?  You  know  what  depends  on  this 
fight  scene  bein'  a  riot — why,  it's  the  kick  to  the  whole 
picture!  If  it  flops,  good-bye  money,  my  reputation, 
yes,  and  a  good  part  of  your  champ's  rep,  too.  Fight 


268          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

fans  out  in  the  sticks  which  never  seen  Roberts  start, 
and  never  will,  are  gonna  see  him  in  this  movie,  and 
if  he  looks  bad,  you  know  what  they'll  say.  Another 
thing,  what  happens  to  your  percentage  of  the  picture's 
earnin's  if  the  thing's  a  bust  ?  And  a  bust  it  will  be  if 
the  Kid  and  Young  Hamilton  don't  put  up  a  rip-roarin', 
two-fisted,  he-man  battle!  You  seen  them  rehearse 
time  after  time  and  you  also  seen  how  terrible  they 
both  was  in  the  scene — each  scared  to  death  he'd  muss 
the  other  one's  hair.  D'ye  think  I'd  release  a  bust  like 
that  with  my  name  on  it?  Not  on  your  life!  I'm 
gonna  shoot  a  fight  to-day  that  will  put  a  permanent 
marcel  in  their  hair !  What  d'ye  suppose  Nada's  been 
cuttin'  Roberts  and  eggin'  Hamilton  on  for?  What 
d'ye  suppose  I  told  him  the  Kid  was  out  to  take  him 
for,  heh?  What  d'ye— " 

"Wait  a  minute!"  I  says.  "D'ye  mean  to  tell  me 
that  Nada  Nice'  has  upstaged  the  Kid  and  lured  this 
poor  boob  Hamilton  on  at  your  orders?" 

"Nada  knows  the  situation,"  he  stalls.  "Why 
shouldn't  she  do  what  she  can  to  help  me?  I  made 
that  girl !  I'm  her  director,  ain't  I  ?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  after  a  bit,  "you  certainly  win  the 
tissue-paper  nail  file!  In  order  to  make  your  movie 
a  success,  you  take  a  chance  on  Kid  Roberts  gettin' 
his  head — "  and  then  I  stopped. 

"The  Kid  ain't  takin'  no  chance  at  all!"  he  sneers, 
readin'  my  thoughts.  "Why,  he  should  dispose  of 
this  guy  with  ease — he's  champion  of  the  world,  ain't 
he?" 

"Yes,  but — "  I  begins,  but  get  no  chance. 

"And  another  thing  you  wanna  remember,  fellah," 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     269 

goes  on  Van  Dyke,  "  is  that  this  ain't  only  my  movie, 
it's  yours  and  his  also !  Of  course,  if  you  think  your 
champ  will  get  mussed  up  and  you  wanna  crab  this 
thing,  go  to  it.  If  you  tell  Kid  Roberts,  it's  all  off, 
because  the  big — because  he'll  refuse  to  knock  Hamil 
ton  dead.  This  Roberts  is  a  hot  sketch  for  a  fighter, 


anyways 


"But  look  here,  Stupid,"  I  says.  "If  I  don't  wise  the 
Kid  up,  how  d'ye  expect  him  to  put  up  a  sure  enough 
battle?" 

"Hamilton  will  take  care  of  that  part  of  it,"  grins 
Van  Dyke.  "When  this  baby  steps  into  that  ring,  Kid 
Roberts  will  have  to  fight!" 

What  was  I  gonna  do?  If  I  crabbed  the  thing,  the 
story  that  Kid  Roberts  had  refused  to  box  Young 
Hamilton,  the  ex-amateur  champ,  etc.,  would  travel 
from  California  to  Florida  overnight.  I  shut  up  and 
walked  back  with  Van  to  the  others,  through  with  the 
movies — jack  or  no  jack! 

We  breezed  over  to  where  the  Kid,  Nada,  Hamilton, 
and  the  rest  of  the  gang  is  waitin'  and  after  some 
close-ups  of  Nada  in  the  Kid's  arms  have  been  shot, 
Van  Dyke  gives  Roberts  and  Hamilton  their  final 
directions  for  the  battle.  With  a  wink  at  Hamilton 
which  the  Kid  don't  see,  Van  Dyke  remarks  that  he 
hopes  the  champion  won't  lose  his  temper  and  knock 
Hamilton  for  a  goal.  Kid  Roberts  innocently  grins 
and  turns  to  the  scowlin'  ex-amateur  champ. 

"Don't  mind  him,  old  man,"  he  says,  "I'll  be  as 
careful  as — " 

Hamilton  cuts  him  off  with  a  snarl. 

"Oh,   never   mind  that   stuff,"   he  says   sneerin'ly. 


270          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"You  do  your  best,  Roberts — for  /  certainly  shall!" 
This  was  too  much  for  Knockout  Burns. 
"Why,  you  big  goof !"  he  yells,  "Kid  Roberts'll  bust 
you  in  half !    You're  gonna  try,  eh?    Well,  if  you  want 
action  I  got  a  thousand  bucks  which  says  I  can  knock 
you  stiff  inside  ten  rounds.    C'mon,  less  go,  you  four- 
flusher  !" 

"Shut  up,  Burns !"  says  the  Kid,  his  quiet  gaze  never 
leavin'  Hamilton's  flushed  face.  "I'm  very  sorry  you 
feel  that  way,  Hamilton.  Perhaps  we  had  better  post 
pone  this  scene  until  you're  in  better  humor.  It's 
rather  dangerous  for  two  big  men  to — " 

Nada  shot  a  meanin'  glance  at  Hamilton,  and  her 
nasty  laugh  shut  the  Kid  off  right  in  the  middle  as 
Van  Dyke  butts  in  with : 

"We  don't  postpone  nothin' !  I  got  a  fight  club 
leased  for  this  scene  and  a  mob  of  extry  people  gettin' 
five  bucks  the  each — seven  for  the  ones  with  dress 
suits — waitin'.  C'mon,  pile  into  them  autos  outside 
and  forget  it!" 

Suddenly  Hamilton  pulls  a  mechanical  smile,  mum 
bles  a  apology,  and  offers  the  Kid  his  hand.  They 
shake,  but  the  ex-amateur  champ  was  lookin'  away 
when  he  done  it — lookin'  over  the  Kid's  shoulder  at 
Nada  Nice. 

A  hour  or  so  later  Kid  Roberts  and  Young  Hamil 
ton  is  climbin'  through  the  ropes  in  a  regulation  ring 
at  the  old  West  Coast  A.  C.  whilst  a  battery  of  movie 
cameras  is  grindin'  out  their  every  move  and  every 
move  of  a  crowd  which  packed  the  joint  to  the  roof. 
On  a  high  stool  beside  the  ring,  and  out  of  range  of 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     271 

the  cameras,  Van  Dyke  is  perched,  directin'  through 
a  megaphone.  Near  by  sits  Nada  Nice,  chattin'  with 
friends,  ready  to  appear  in  the  Kid's  corner  for  the 
climax.  She  looked  like  she  hadn't  a  care  in  the 
world — and  prob'ly  hadn't.  All  around  the  edge  of 
the  ring  is  the  newspaper  guys,  tickled  silly  to  come 
and  get  a  real  line  on  the  champion's  present  condi 
tion  ;  back  of  them  the  supers  in  dress  suits  and  evenin' 
gowns,  and  behind  them  a  bunch  of  society  guys  and 
their  girl  friends,  invited  with  engraved  cards  by  Van 
Dyke,  and  there  out  of  curiosity  to  see  a  movie  made. 
The  supers  is  tryin'  to  act  like  society  leaders,  and 
the  society  leaders  is  tryin'  to  act  like  supers.  Kid 
Roberts  is  grinnin'  and  chattin'  with  the  newspaper 
guys,  answerin'  a  fire  of  questions  about  his  next  fight 
and  the  like,  but  across  the  ring  Hamilton  is  drawn 
and  nervous,  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"Lights !"  bellers  Van  Dyke,  and  a  distinct  hush 
fell  over  the  mob.  "Ready,  camera — all  right,  Roberts, 
Hamilton — shoot !" 

Clang! — the  bell  just  like  the  real  thing,  and  they're 
off. 

Both  men  come  to  the  center  of  the  ring,  touched 
gloves  lightly,  and  begin  sparrin',  as  they'd  rehearsed 
over  and  over.  Hamilton  suddenly  chopped  his  right 
to  the  head  and  then  hooked  the  same  glove  to  the  jaw 
as  the  Kid  started  to  back  away.  The  champ  boxed 
cautiously  for  a  few  seconds,  landin'  lightly  with  both 
hands,  and  Hamilton  drove  him  against  the  ropes  with 
a  torrid  left  to  the  body.  Lookin'  surprised,  Roberts 
clinched,  and  the  wise  newspaper  guys  begin  to  sit  up 


272  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

straight  in  their  seats.  I  can't  remember  when  my 
throat  was  ever  so  dry  before!  They  slid  along  the 
ropes,  Hamilton  fightin'  with  one  arm  free,  diggin' 
his  glove  into  the  kidneys  and  short  ribs.  The  referee, 
a  assistant  director,  broke  them  on  orders  from  Van 
Dyke,  and  the  Kid  put  a  slow  left  to  the  head,  apolo- 
gizin'  when  the  heel  of  the  glove  scraped  skin  from 
Hamilton's  ear.  The  ex-amateur  champ's  reply  was  a 
volley  of  lefts  and  rights  that  gave  the  Kid  all  he 
could  do  for  a  minute,  and  then  Van  Dyke  shouts 
through  the  megaphone: 

"Now,  Roberts,  you  drop  your  hands  and  stagger 
away — you  been  doped,  and  here's  where  you  get 
knocked  down — that's  good — that's  fine !  Hamilton, 
get  ready  to  swing  your  right — don't  watch  the  camera 
— you  think  you're  on  the  verge  of  knockin'  the  cham 
pion  out — that's  right,  try  and  look  it !  Now,  Hamil 
ton — cop  him — on  the  chest  will  do;  it'll  look  like  a 
punch  from  here — ready  now — all  right  drop  your 
hands,  Roberts,  drop  your — " 

Kid  Roberts  obediently  lowers  his  guard,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash,  Hamilton  pastes  him — not  on  the  chest,  but 
square  on  the  point  of  the  jaw,  and  the  Kid  goes  down 
like  a  log! 

"Cut!"  hollers  Van  Dyke.  "That's  great— wonder 
ful  !  /'//  give  these  birds  a  movie !" 

Mutterin'  apologies,  Hamilton  bends  down  and  helps 
the  Kid  to  his  feet,  whilst  twelve  assistants  of  Van 
Dyke  grabs  me  arid  shoves  me  back  out  of  the  ring, 
which  I  had  reached  in  one  frenzied  jump,  hollerin'  that 
nobody's  allowed  on  the  set  whilst  Van  Dyke's  shootin'. 
The  crowd  gives  Hamilton  a  big  hand  as  he  walks  to 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  273 

his  stool,  and  Nada  waves  her  hand  to  him.  Van  Dyke 
is  grinnin'  happily.  Whilst  Knockout  Burns  and  the 
other  handlers  is  workin'  over  Kid  Roberts,  I  lashed 
out  with  both  hands,  clearin'  a  space  and  managed  to 
crawl  through  the  ropes  to  the  Kid's  side. 

"Kid — this  is  a  frame-up!"  I  panted  in  his  ear. 
"I  ain't  got  time  to  tell  you  all  of  it  now,  but  knock 
this  guy  dead  and  knock  him  quick!  He's  tryin'  to 
put  you  away,  and — " 

"Nonsense!"  smiles  the  Kid.  "The  boy  lost  his 
head,  that's  all.  I'm  not  hurt ;  the  punch  was  too  high, 
and  I  was  falling  when  I  got  it,  you  know.  Hamilton's 
probably  sorrier  than  I  am  that  he  landed.  The  thing 
was  an  unavoidable  accident.  Forget  it!" 

Van  Dyke  comes  over  and  shoves  past  me.  "Every 
thing's  goin'  fine!"  he  tells  the  Kid,  slappin'  his 
shoulder.  "Now  this  is  the  last  round.  Remember, 
you  get  floored  twice,  then  Nada  appears  at  the  foot  of 
the  ropes — you  see  her — get  up,  rush  Hamilton,  and 
knock  the  big  bu — that  is,  he'll  fall  through  the  ropes 
like  he  was  cracked — see?" 

The  Kid  nods  and  Van  Dyke  calls  Hamilton  over. 
They's  a  mattress  on  the  floor  outside  the  ropes  so's  he 
won't  get  hurt  when  he  goes  through  'em,  and  Van 
Dyke  makes  him  and  the  Kid  rehearse  the  thing  once 
more  without  the  cameras.  I  thought  they  did  it 
pretty  well,  and  the  society  bunch  clapped  their  hands 
off.  Then  Van  Dyke  calls  for  lights  and  cameras,  the 
bell  rings,  and  they  begin  the  thrillin'  climax. 

Thrillin'  was  right! 

The  minute  they  met  in  the  middle  of  the  ring 
Hamilton  throws  all  pretenses  to  the  breeze  and  give 


274          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

himself  up  to  the  job  of  knockin'  Kid  Roberts  for  a 
row  of  silos.  Van  Dyke  called  out  the  rehearsed  blows 
to  him,  but  the  ex-amateur  champ,  with  murder  in  his 
eyes,  paid  no  attention,  and  before  the  round  was  a 
minute  old  he  had  the  Kid  doin'  his  best,  and  everybody 
in  the  place  knowed  they  was  seein'  a  finish  fight  and 
not  no  movie !  The  Kid  missed  a  left  jab,  and  Hamil 
ton  opened  a  old  cut  over  his  eye  with  a  vicious  right, 
puttin'  a  straight  left  to  the  same  place  before  the 
amazed  Roberts  could  block.  I  had  to  admire  this 
Hamilton's  speed,  even  though  I  would  of  liked  to 
cooked  him  then  and  there!  Roberts  brought  him 
up  standin'  with  a  right  to  the  heart,  but  a  instant 
later  Hamilton  made  the  champ  open  his  mouth  and 
gasp  with  two  hard  smashes  to  the  wind.  Van  Dyke 
now  yelled  hysterically  for  the  Kid  to  take  his  first 
fall,  and,  backin'  away  from  the  rushin'  Hamilton, 
Roberts  slid  clumsily  to  the  floor.  At  once  the  house 
rocked  with  the  boos  of  the  excited  mob,  society  bunch 
and  all.  The  only  way  I  can  explain  the  thing  that 
happened  next  is  that  Hamilton  went  cuckoo  at  the 
chance  to  knock  out  the  world's  champion — for  he 
swung  a  wicked  right  to  the  Kid's  head  as  he  was 
gettin'  up  off  the  floor,  sprawlin'  the  champ  flat  on  his 
back.  The  assistant  director,  which  was  "referee," 
was  nuts  himself  with  the  thrill  of  the  thing  and  forgot 
to  count,  but  the  newspaper  guys  willin'ly  obliged.  The 
Kid  took  "nine,"  and  when  he  come  up  they  was  every 
thing  but  mercy  in  his  hard,  glitterin'  gray  eyes. 

I  hadn't  watched  Hamilton  work  for  nothin',  an4 
when  the  Kid's  anxious  gaze  searched  and  found  mine 
in  the  mob  I  screamed  over  the  din :  "Make  him  lead 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     275 

to  you,  Kid !"  and  Roberts  immediately  feinted  Hamil 
ton  into  swingin'  his  right.  As  the  punch  started,  the 
champ  slid  in  under  it  and  hooked  both  hands  to  the 
jaw,  folio  win'  that  with  a  left  to  the  body  that  all 
but  doubled  Hamilton  in  two.  The  ex-amateur  star 
now  begin  back-pedalin'  all  over  the  ring  with  the 
Kid  on  top  of  him,  jabbin'  his  head  back  and  forth 
with  his  beautiful  straight  left  and  play  in'  for  a  openin' 
for  his  deadly  right. 

As  per  the  scenario,  Nada  appears  at  the  edge  of 
the  ring,  wavin'  her  arms  and  shoutin'  to  attract  the 
Kid's  attention,  but  the  Kid  was  terrible  busy  just 
then!  Van  Dyke  swings  his  megaphone  around  and 
bawls  somethin'  in  her  ear.  Nada  smiles  and  at  once 
begins  yellin' — ycllin'  for  Hamilton  to  knock  the  Kid 
out!  Roberts  stops  dead,  turns  slowly  and  looks  at 
her  with  a  most  peculiar  expression  on  his  face.  The 
watchin'  Hamilton  plunges  in  with  a  right  uppercut 
that  buckled  the  Kid's  knees  under  him  and  sent  the 
mob  insane.  Likewise  me!  They  mixed  it  furiously 
near  Hamilton's  corner  and  Van  Dyke  bellers  for  the 
ex-amateur  champ  to  fall  through  the  ropes.  Hamil 
ton  sneers  at  him  and  hooked  his  left  hard  to  the  Kid's 
mouth,  bringin'  the  blood.  The  place  was  now  in  a 
wild  uproar  and  neither  of  'em  paid  any  attention  to 
the  bell,  but  stood  toe  to  toe,  sluggin'  with  both  hands. 
Hamilton  was  the  first  to  break  ground  and  the  Kid 
raised  a  lump  on  his  jaw  with  a  overhand  right  swing 
that  sent  him  spinnin'  to  the  ropes.  He  rebounded  into 
a  right  that  tore  his  ear  and  dove  into  a  clinch,  but 
the  Kid  jerked  himself  free  and  split  the  ex-amateur 
champ's  nose  with  a  left  chop.  Both  then  missed 


276          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

rights  to  the  head  and  Roberts  again  put  his  left  to 
the  sore  nose.  Hamilton  looked  very  tired  and  tried 
to  make  the  Kid  box  with  him,  but  Roberts  was  im 
patient  to  end  matters  and  peppered  his  man  with 
short,  joltin'  lefts  and  rights  to  the  wind,  wearin'  him 
down  so's  to  get  a  fair  crack  at  the  jaw.  The  chance 
come  fin'ly  when  a  smash  over  the  heart  doubled 
Hamilton  up.  The  Kid  coolly  jabbed  a  openin'  with 
his  left,  measured  the  punch-drunk  ex-amateur  champ 
and  with  a  right  uppercut  to  the  button  sent  him 
crashin'  through  the  ropes  as  advertised — and  it  wasn't 
on  the  side  of  the  ring  where  the  mattress  was,  either ! 

The  mob  is  millin'  out  through  the  doors,  havin' 
been  furnished  with  somethin'  to  talk  about  for  months, 
and  we're  all  gathered  about  Hamilton  which  is  sittin' 
on  his  stool,  just  comin'  to  life.  Knockout  Burns 
pushes  through  the  jam  to  his  side. 

"Well,  you  big  double-crossin'  tramp!"  he  snarls 
at  the  beaten  Hamilton.  "Are  you  satisfied  now,  eh? 
Woof — what  a  proper  pastin'  you  drawed  for  your 
self  !  It  takes  a  lickin'  like  that  to  show  you  false 
alarms  where  you  git  off.  I  bet  you  won't  look  at  a 
boxin'  glove  again  till  the  day  you  die.  It's  a  good 
thing  I  wasn't  in  there  with  you,  I'd  of  cut  you  to  rib 
bons,  just  to  be  nasty!" 

Hamilton  looks  up  at  Burns,  starin'  him  steadily 
in  the  eye  like  he's  tryin'  to  remember  where  he  seen 
him  before.  Then  his  teeth  comes  together  with  a 
dick,  he  gets  up  slowly  and  pushes  away  the  guys 
which  wants  to  help  him. 

"Put  up  your  hands !"  he  says  huskily. 

"Why,   you — "   begins   the   astonished   Burns — and 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     277 

never  finished,  for  Hamilton  shot  straight  out  with 
his  bandaged  right  hand  and  Knockout  Burns  sagged 
a  second  and  then  toppled  in  a  heap  at  my  feet ! 

So  that  was  all  settled. 

"Roberts,"  says  Hamilton,  unsteadily,  facin'  the 
cold-eyed  Kid,  "I — I — was  a  fool !  However,  I  guess 
I've  paid  for  it.  I — I — lost  my  head —  No,  damn  it, 
I'll  be  square  with  you!  I  went  in  there  determined 
to  knock  you  out  and  I  deserve  all  I  got,  but — I  have 
never  done  anything  like  this  in  my  life  before — never 
tried  to  double-cross  anyone  and — and  I  feel  rotten 
about  it !  Will  you  accept  my  sincere  apology — 
please f" 

The  Kid  looks  him  over  and  grins.  "Why  of 
course!"  he  says,  shakin'  his  hand  warmly.  "It's  for 
gotten,  old  boy.  I  don't  blame  you  in  a  way — it  was 
a  big  chance  and  then  there  was — "  He  looks  around 
meanin'ly  to  where  Nada  Nice  and  Van  Dyke  is  in 
earnest  conversation.  Van  Dyke  waves  his  hand  and 
calls  over  :  "A  wonderful  picture — wonderful !  This 
thing  will  make  you,  Hamilton!"  and  goes  right  on 
talkin'  to  Nada  again. 

"By  the  way,"  says  Hamilton,  "I — ah — pardon  my 
curiosity,  but  what  is  your  real  real  name?  I  mean,  I 
know  it  isn't  Kid  Roberts ;  all  fighters  adopt  a  ring — " 

"I'm  Kane  Halliday,  out  of  the  ring,"  says  the 
Kid. 

"Cain?"  hollers  Hamilton,  in  a  voice  that  made 
everybody  look  around  at  us.  "By  gad,  no  wonder  you 
licked  me!" 

"Why?"  asks  the  Kid. 


278          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"Don't  you  know?"  roars  Hamilton.  "My  name  is 
Abel—Abd  Hamilton!" 

No,  boys  and  girls,  Hamilton  didn't  wed  the  charmin' 
Nada  Nice.  You  see,  she  happened  to  be  Van  Dyke's 
wife. 

And,  as  J.  Caesar  remarked  as  he  waded  the  Rubi 
con,  there's  that! 


ROUND  ELEVEN 
STRIKE  FATHER,  STRIKE  SON ! 

No  matter  how  nifty  he  is  with  his  hands,  a  box 
fighter  without  absolute  confidence  in  his  ability  to 
weather  whatever  unexpected  hurricane  of  smashin' 
wallops  he  may  run  into  durin'  the  course  of  a  muss 
is  a  box  fighter  without  no  good  reason  for  remainin' 
in  a  tough  game.  He  may  outpoint  the  clumsy,  slow- 
thinkin'  dumb-bells,  but  the  hard-boiled  baby  which 
can  take  it  and  grimly  wait  till  the  openin'  comes  for 
one  solid  smash  has  the  edge  on  this  guy  every  time. 
The  faint-hearted  bird  is  no  good  when  he's  hurt;  the 
real  fighter  is  no  good  till  he's  hurt !  In  other  words, 
the  clever  but  weak-spirited  boxer  is  usually  a  world 
beater  among  the  tramps  and  a  tramp  among  the  world 
beaters. 

But  confidence,  boys  and  girls,  is  a  heady  drink — 
too  much  is  as  dangerous  to  success  as  too  little.  You 
want  to  dilute  it  a  bit,  reduce  its  high  proof  with  a 
little  respect  for  the  other  guy's  chances.  Instead 
of  thinkin'  that  every  cuckoo  and  every  situation  you're 
called  upon  to  face  in  this  game  called  life  is  a  set-up 
for  you,  allow  leeway  for  the  unreckoned  break,  the 
bolt  from  the  blue,  the  chance  that  you  might  slip  on 
the  banana  peel  Fate  or  be  flattened  by  the  thunder- 

279 


280  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

bolt  Chance.  Give  plenty  of  play  for  the  unnervin' 
unexpected  and — it  won't  be! 

Like  the  forbidden  hooch,  confidence  has  its  deadly, 
high-powered  bootleg  imitation  in  Conceit.  This  often 
looks  like  the  original,  100-proof  bonded  stuff — the 
difference  is  in  the  effect.  Confidence  steadies  the  lad 
der  of  Fame  for  you  and  makes  the  long  climb  easier. 
Conceit  hides  the  holes  between  the  rungs,  with  the 
results  that  you  fall  through. 

And  now,  girls  and  boys,  havin'  got  all  that  off  my 
chest,  here's  a  incident  in  the  sensational  career  of 
Kid  Roberts,  which  I  would  like  to  place  before  the 
jury  as  a  good  example  of  all  the  above. 

Within  a  month  after  Kid  Roberts  has  finished 
elevatin'  the  deaf-and-dumb  drama  by  makin'  that 
movie  in  which  he  knocked  everybody  cold  includin' 
the  exhibitors,  we  have  signed  for  two  bouts  under  the 
personal  direction  of  Jimmy  McManus,  the  Tex  Rick- 
ard  of  his  day.  We  are  to  get  $150,000  for  the  first 
muss  no  matter  what  happens,  and  the  same  amount  for 
the  second — provided  the  Kid  is  still  heavyweight  cham 
pion.  In  other  words,  if  we  lose  our  first  start,  that's 
all  there  is,  there  isn't  any  more,  as  Ethel  Barrymore 
was  once  heard  to  remark. 

Jack  Enright,  a  two-hundred-pounder  from  New 
Orleans,  which  had  flashed  to  the  front  by  the  diffi 
cult  process  of  winnin'  all  his  brawls  in  a  couple  of 
rounds,  and  Marty  McCabe,  another  tough  bird,  hailin' 
from  Seattle,  was  the  Kid's  most  persistent  challengers. 
It  has  been  almost  a  year  since  the  Kid  win  the  title, 
and  in  that  time  he  hadn't  defended  it  once.  So  either 
Enright  or  McCabe,  both  goin'  great  guns  and  fightin' 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     281 

two  or  three  times  a  month,  looked  worth  a  bet  against 
the  champ  to  all  the  wise  crackers.  All  but  me.  / 
figured  the  Kid  could  climb  into  a  ring  with  the  two  of 
'em  and  knock  'em  both  dead ! 

Folio  win'  several  weeks  of  felonious  assault  on  each 
other  in  the  newspapers,  Enright  and  McCabe  is 
matched  to  mingle  for  twenty  frames,  the  winner  to 
get  first  crack  at  Kid  Roberts  and  the  world's  heavy 
weight  championship.  This  melee  attracted  no  more 
attention  than  the  invasion  of  Belgium,  and  by  the  time 
the  brawny  young  men  clambered  into  the  ring  to  toss 
gloves  at  each  other  you  couldn't  of  bought  your  way 
inside  the  clubhouse  had  your  name  been  Jack  Rocke 
feller. 

Me  and  Kid  Roberts  was  among  the  important 
guests,  jammed  right  up  against  the  lower  ropes  with 
the  workin'  sport  writers,  and  after  the  announcer 
has  lashed  the  customers  into  a  murderous  rage  by 
introducin'  everybody  but  Christopher  Columbus,  his 
eyes  falls  on  Kid  Roberts.  In  another  minute  the  Kid 
is  bein'  helped  through  the  ropes  in  his  dazzlin  dress 
suit,  without  which  he  wouldn't  even  go  to  the  corner 
for  a  newspaper  after  six  p.  m. 

The  announcer  got  as  far  as  "We  have  with  us  to 
night — "  when  the  roar  killed  him  off  and  he  quit.  The 
mob  had  been  sittin'  for  hours  waitin'  for  Enright  and 
McCabe  to  start  in  killin'  each  other.  It  was  on  edge 
and  didn't  want  to  meet  nobody.  Again,  Kid  Roberts 
hadn't  defended  his  title  for  a  year,  and  no  champion 
can  hold  his  popularity  which  don't  fight  early  and 
often.  The  Kid's  dress  suit  hit  'em  all  wrong,  too. 
They  wanted  to  see  him  in  a  business  suit — fightin' 


282          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

trunks  and  four-ounce  gloves.  So  that  Kid  Roberts, 
standin'  there  white  and  hard-faced,  heard  the  thing 
that  every  champ  from  Jem  Mace  to  Jack  Dempsey 
has  heard  sooner  or  later  from  the  fickle  mob — the 
long-drawn-out,  vicious  "Booooo!"  drownin'  out  the 
cheers  of  the  hysterical. 

And,  listen — don't  think  that  stuff  don't  hurt! 

This  was  all  new  and  very  painful  to  the  Kid.  He'd 
been  used  to  a  thunder  of  cheers  wherever  he  showed 
his  face.  The  raspberry  was  a  fruit  he  had  never 
tasted  before,  and  the  darn  thing  went  to  his  head. 
Anyways,  he  stood  lookin'  out  at  the  roarin'  Atlantic 
of  faces  for  a  minute,  curled  his  lip  like  he  was  sayin' 
"You  poor  fatheads!"  and  then,  walkin'  to  Enright's 
corner,  picked  up  his  bandaged  hand  and  shook  it, 
politely  wishin'  him  luck.  He  done  the  same  thing  to 
McCabe.  Neither  of  'em  give  him  a  tumble. 

Back  beside  me,  the  Kid  sneers :  "Did  you  hear  those 
fools  jeering  me?" 

I  hunched  my  shoulders  and  settled  in  the  seat. 
"What  do  you  care?"  I  says.  "Now — " 

"I'll  win  my  next  fight  with  a  punch!"  he  goes  on, 
smilin'  nastily.  "Just  to  show  them  the  difference 
between  a  champion  and" — he  nods  at  Enright  and 
McCabe — "and  those  thick-skulled  bruisers  there!" 

"Well,  les'  forget  it  now  and  watch  this  one,"  I 
says,  as  the  handlers  begin  scramblin'  out  of  the 
ring.  But  I  was  bothered!  The  Kid  had  never  done 
no  braggin'  before.  Just  the  opposite — he'd  concede 
a  cripple  a  chance  with  him  till  the  thing  was  over. 
This  stuff  was  all  new.  I  gazed  at  him  sidewise, 
and  he  was  lollin'  back  in  his  seat  watchin'  Enright 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     283 

and  McCabe,  one  of  which  he'd  have  to  battle  within 
the  next  six  months,  like  they  was  a  couple  of  ama 
teurs  in  a  gym.  When  he  taps  a  yawn  back  into  his 
mouth,  I  got  a  chill.  Before  we  filed  out  of  that  club 
house  I  was  chilled  to  the  bone! 

With  a  sigh  of  pure  joy,  the  crowd  has  leaned 
forward  at  the  bell,  breathin'  hard  and  set  for  a 
long,  tough  battle,  with  the  result  a  toss-up.  A  man- 
killin'  slugger  against  a  master  boxer.  Scheduled  for 
twenty  frames,  seven  or  eight  rounds  of  bloodcurdlin' 
millin'  before  one  of  'em  hit  the  mat  seemed  a  cinch. 
As  they  came  to  the  center,  McCabe  was  short  with  a 
straight  left,  and  Enright  put  a  wicked  right  to  the 
head,  scrapin'  the  lace  of  his  glove  on  the  skin  as  he 
flicked  it  away. 

"This  guy's  a  dirty  scrapper,  Kid,"  I  whispers. 

"I'll  make  him  clean!"  scowls  the  Kid.  "It  won't 
even  be  a  contest  when  /  get  him.  Look,  he's  as 
open  as  a  novice — I'll  stop  this  fellow  with  the  first 
one  I  try!" 

Again  I  felt  a  nervous  shiver,  but  I  got  no  chance 
for  a  comeback  because  the  gladiators  was  goin'  to 
it  with  a  right  good  will,  as  the  sayin'  is.  Stung  by 
the  mob's  yells,  McCabe  shook  himself  and  begin 
dancin'  around  the  clumsy  Enright,  stabbin'  him  in 
the  face  with  a  long,  punishin'  left.  A  few  seconds 
of  this  and  Enright 's  features  is  gory  and  purplin', 
and  one  eye  has  observed  the  early-closin'  law.  He 
missed  a  couple  of  vicious  right  swings,  and  then, 
followin'  the  shriekin'  advice  of  his  handlers,  he  begins 
to  bull  his  way  in  to  close  quarters.  This  early  and 
prob'ly  unlooked-for  success  made  McCabe  a  bit  too 


284          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

confident.  He  let  Enright  come  in  and,  shiftin'  his 
attack  to  the  body,  grinned  jovially  and  pounded  the 
wind  with  one  arm  free,  the  other  protectin'  himself. 
As  the  referee  run  over  to  break  'em,  Enright's  ter 
rible  right  come  up  in  a  half  circle,  smashed  through  a 
openin'  and  clipped  McCabe  on  the  chin.  McCabe's 
knees  sagged,  and  a  goofy  look  spread  over  his  face. 
The  mob's  yell  rocked  the  buildin'.  Quick  as  a  flash, 
Enright's  left  flicked  up  around  McCabe's  neck,  the 
glove  droppin'  with  a  thud  just  as  the  pantin'  referee 
shoved  'em  apart.  McCabe  fell  with  a  crash,  his  face 
hittin'  first. 

He  was  still  there  at  "ten."  He  was  still  there 
half  a  hour  later  when  the  disgusted,  grumblin'  crowd 
had  milled  out  of  the  clubhouse.  He  was  still  there 
two  hours  after  that,  when  another  kind  of  a  boxer — 
the  undertaker — come  to  take  him  and  his  broken  neck 
away  from  the  perspirin'  medicos  and  the  dumfounded, 
white-faced  club  officials. 

"Well,"  I  says  to  the  Kid  as  we  climb  into  his  car 
on  the  en  route  to  the  hotel,  "d'ye  still  think  Enright's 
a  set-up?" 

"Why  not  ?"  he  says.  "This  tragedy  to-night  doesn't 
change  my  opinion  a  particle!  I  grant  you  Enright 
can  hit — that  short  right  uppercut  that  literally  tore 
poor  McCabe's  head  off  would  have  felled  an  ox — 
but  he  isn't  going  to  hit  me  with  it,  that's  all.  I've 
stopped  a  dozen  men  who  could  hit  as  hard  as  Enright, 
haven't  I  ?" 

"As  hard — yes,"  I  agrees,  noddin'  my  head  and  gazin' 
out  at  the  town  generally.  Then  I  looked  back  at  him. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     285 

"Kid,"  I  says,  "since  we  first  hooked  up  three  years 
ago  till  we  win  the  heavyweight  title,  we  have  took 
'em  all  on  regardless  of  color,  weight,  religion,  or  rep. 
We  have  ducked  nobody.  The  only  reason  we  ain't 
gone  to  the  post  with  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar  is  because 
they  is  no  way  to  get  boxin'  gloves  on  it !  I  know  you 
can  take  Enright,  and  I  think  you  can  stop  any  heavy 
which  ever  rubbed  a  foot  in  rosin  and  stop  'em  the  best 
day  they  ever  seen.  Nevertheless  and  but,  we  ain't 
goin'  to  fight  Enright,  and  the  newspapers  can  howl 
their  heads  off!" 

Kid  Roberts  laughs  good-naturedly.  "Why — be 
cause  he  killed  McCabe?"  he  asks,  like  he's  humorin' 
a  child. 

"Exactly!"  I  says.  "Because  he  killed  McCabe, 
he  likewise  murdered  his  chance  at  the  heavyweight 
title." 

"Why,  you  fool !"  says  the  Kid,  becomin'  excited, 
"do  you  think  a  thing  like  that  would  ever  happen 
to  Enright  again — that  he'd  kill  a  man  with  a  punch? 
It  was  an  accident — an  unfortunate  accident,  pure  and 
simple.  He — " 

"The  same  kind  of  a  accident  as  sunrise  is!"  1 
butts  in.  "Look  here,  just  what  do  you  think  happened 
in  that  ring  to-night?  Just  tell  me  how  you  got 
the  knockout  punch  figured." 

"There's  nothing  difficult  about  that,"  says  the  Kid. 
"You  saw  it.  They  were  clinched  when  Enright  landed 
a  right  uppercut,  McCabe  going  down  as  the  referee 
broke  them.  In  falling,  the  poor  devil's  head  hit  a 
poorly  padded  bit  of  ring  planking  and,  as  the  news 
paper  boys  figure  it,  his  head  struck  with  sufficient 


286          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

force  to  break  his  neck.  Same  thing  that  killed  Luther 
McCarthy,  you  know.  I'll  never  forget  Enright's  ex 
pression — he  was  thunderstruck!" 

"Thunderstruck,  your  great-grand-aunt!"  I  snorts. 
"He  was  scared  stiff — he  thought  somebody  was  wise. 
The  rat!" 

"Say,  what  are  you  gettin'  at?"  says  the  Kid,  in 
terested  at  last. 

"This,"  I  says.  "Marty  McCabe  wasn't  killed  by 
hittin'  his  bean  on  nothin'.  He  was  dead  when  he 
started  to  fall!" 

The  Kid's  face  is  a  movie.  "I  suppose,"  he  says, 
with  a  sarcastical  smile — "I  suppose  that  Enright  had 
a  revolver  concealed  in  his  right  glove  and  shot  him — 
that  it?" 

"No,"  I  says,  "Enright  had  a  rabbit  punch  concealed 
in  his  left  glove  and  cracked  his  neck!" 

That  removed  the  sarcastical  smile. 

"Now,"  I  continues,  watchin'  the  amused  sparkle 
in  this  big,  handsome  kid's  gray  eyes  turn  to  a  mur 
derous  steel  glint,  "if  you'll  gimme  your  undivided  at 
tention,  I'll  tell  you  what  come  to  pass  in  that  ring  to 
night.  In  the  first  place,  let  us  take  the  rabbit  punch. 
You've  seen  'em  kill  rabbits  by  holdin'  the  intelligent 
animal  up  by  the  ears  with  one  hand  and  hittin'  him 
sharply  on  the  back  with  the  edge  of  the  other,  result — 
one  dead  rabbit.  Now,  it  ain't  a  million  years  ago 
since  this  was  a  perfectly  legal  way  of  endin'  a  box 
fight,  but  the  rabbit  punch  has  been  barred  by  law  in 
most  places  and  by  public  opinion  in  all.  Next  we 
have  that  clinch  to-night  which  ends  with  the  decease 
of  Marty  McCabe.  Enright,  a  wild  swinger,  throws 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     287 

that  right  uppercut  into  the  air  without  a  idea  in  the 
wide,  wide  world  where  it's  goin'  to  land.  Of  course, 
he  has  hopes.  As  it  happened,  it  caught  McCabe  on 
the  chin  and  dazed  him,  but  Enright,  with  his  head 
buried  under  this  guy's  arm,  didn't  know  where  it  went. 
All  he  knows  is  that  he's  licked  if  he  don't  get  away 
from  the  terrific  body  punishment  he  was  gettin',  so 
he  flicks  up  his  left  and  drops  the  edge  of  it  sharply 
on  McCabe's  neck.  That's  what  finished  McCabe — 
the  rabbit  punch,  Kid,  not  the  right  uppercut !  You 
and  the  newspaper  guys  is  watchin'  the  fight.  Me,  I'm 
watchin'  Enright,  because  you're  goin'  to  fight  him  and 
I  want  to  see  everything  he's  got.  And  that's  why 
we  don't  box  that  murderin'  yellah  dog." 

We  was  at  the  hotel  by  this  time,  but  the  Kid  don't 
make  a  crack  till  we  get  up  to  our  rooms — just  keeps 
shakin'  his  head. 

"My  God,"  he  says  to  me  fin'ly,  "when  I  get  out  of 
this  game  I'll  be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world!" 

"I'll  be  the  unhappiest,"  I  says,  "because  I  will  then 
have  to  drive  a  truck !" 

He  throws  over  my  shoulder  a  arm  which  in  three 
years  has  turned  him  in  close  to  a  quarter  of  a  million. 
"You'll  quit  the  ring  when  I  do,"  he  grins,  "and  come 
in  as  an  equal  partner  with  father  and  me  in  whatever 
we  undertake." 

"I'd  make  a  wonderful  pillar  of  Wall  Street,"  I 
says.  "Nope,  Kid,  your  intentions  is  great,  but  your 
judgment  is  terrible!  When  you  step  down  I'll  get 
me  a  battler  or  two  and  continue  on." 

"When  I  step  down,"  he  repeats.  "That  brings  us 
back  to  Enright.  We  have  a  fifty-thousand-dollar  for- 


288  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

feit  up  to  meet  the  winner  of  the  Enright-McCabe  fight, 
and  Enright  won — don't  forget  that." 

"That's  out,  now,"  I  says.  "Enright  will  be  on  his 
way  up  the  river  in  another  month  and — ' 

"Look  here,"  he  butts  in.  "I've  thought  this  all 
over.  How  can  you  prove  that  he  deliberately  killed 
McCabe?  Apparently  nobody  saw  that  rabbit  punch 
but  yourself." 

That  was  it — how  could  I  prove  it? 

"Listen  to  me,"  says  the  Kid  after  a  minute.  "There's 
nothing  we  can  do  about  this  but  to  keep  quiet.  We'll 
go  down  to-morrow  and  sign  articles  with  Enright. 
They  say  I'm  a  moving-picture  champion,  eh?  Well, 
you  get  me  Enright,  and  I'll  make  him  wish  he'd  never 
laid  eyes  on  a  boxing  glove !" 

"Hey,  look  here,"  I  says,  pretendin'  to  frown.  "D'ye 
know  you're  gettin'  terrible  tough  lately?  I  never 
heard  you  do  no  ballyhooin'  about  yourself  before. 
What's  the  idea?" 

Instantly  he's  embarrassed  as  a  chorus  girl  without 
a  telephone. 

"Forgive  me,  old  man,"  he  says.  "I  can  imagine 
how  that  must  sound.  I'll  need  two  years  in  a  fin 
ishing  school  after  I  quit  this  game  before  I'll  dare 
attempt  a  drawing  room!"  Then  he  grins:  "Say — 
it  woul:1  be  rich  if  Enright  knocked  me  out,  wouldn't 
it?" 

You  see  what  a  kid  he  was. 

Well,  of  course  they  didn't  hold  Enright  for  Mc- 
Cabe's  death.  Unavoidable  accident  and  the  like,  and 
columns  was  wrote  showin'  they  is  eighty-six  times 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     289 

as  many  guys  killed  playin'  football  each  year  as  they 
is  in  the  box-fight  game.  What  that  proves  I  don't 
know.  Anyways,  in  a  week  we  sign  to  fight  twenty 
frames  with  Enright  for  the  world's  heavyweight  cham 
pionship,  and  when  we're  comin'  down  in  the  elevator 
from  the  newspaper  office,  Red  Samuels,  Enright's 
pilot,  says  to  me:  "That  was  a  tough  break  we  got 
with  McCabe — him  dyin',  eh?" 

"Terrible  tough,"  I  says.  "And  if  that  bum  of 
yours  tries  to  rabbit-punch  the  champion,  you'll  get 
a  tougher  one.  They'll  all  be  watchin'  him  this 
time !" 

He  gets  as  white  as  cream,  and  I  whispers  somethin' 
to  a  newspaper  guy.  As  I'm  leavin'  the  elevator,  the 
sport  writer  turns  to  Enright  and  says :  "What's 
this  I  hear  about  you  not  enterin'  a  ring  without  a 
rabbit  for  a  mascot  ?" 

Sweet  Mamma — you  should  of  seen  Enright's  face! 

They  is  nothin'  like  givin'  the  other  guy  somethin' 
to  worry  about.  It  all  helps. 

We  are  due  to  go  in  trainin'  for  Enright  within  a 
few  weeks,  and  durin'  that  time  the  Kid  got  no  peace 
from  his  father  and  the  beautiful  Dolores  Brewster. 
Both  of  'em  seemed  to  have  the  idea  that  Kid  Roberts 
was  goin'  to  his  grave  if  he  climbed  into  a  ring  with 
the  man-killin'  Enright,  and  they  begged  him  to  call 
it  a  day  and  retire  a  undefeated  and  still  livin'  cham 
pion.  The  newspapers  helped  their  arguments  a  whole 
lot.  They  was  daily  pictures  of  Enright,  now  the 
"sensational  young  challenger  for  the  world's  heavy 
weight  championship."  Kid  Roberts  would  be  lucky 
to  go  three  rounds  with  this  baby.  He'd  been  away 


290          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

from  the  ring  too  long,  and  bein'  in  the  movies  had 
softened  him  up.  Anybody  which  could  get  past  the 
first  couple  of  rounds  with  him  would  take  him.  They 
never  come  back,  etc. 

All  this  stuff  might  of  got  my  goat,  only  I  had  seen 
every  word  of  it  printed  before  about  the  guy  Kid 
Roberts  had  took  the  title  away  from.  You've  seen 
it  too.  It  never  changes.  The  only  difference  is  in 
the  names. 

The  night  before  we're  leavin'  town  for  the  long 
trainin'  grind,  we  have  a  farewell  dinner  at  Senator 
Brewster's  home  on  Fifth  Avenue.  The  Sen's  igloo 
would  make  Buckin'ham  Palace  look  like  a  stable.  The 
Kid's  father  is  there,  lookin'  like  the  king  of  the  world 
with  his  fine  big  handsome  head  of  steel-gray  hair  and 
class  engraved  on  him  from  toe  to  forehead.  Here's  a 
guy  which  used  to  make  'em  sit  up  and  beg  on  Ticker 
Boulevard,  and  now  he's  just  dubbin'  along  here  and 
there — and  waitin'.  Across  the  long  table  is  Kid 
Roberts  and  Dolores  Brewster — the  collar-ad  guy  come 
to  life  and  talkin'  to  the  magazine-cover  girl!  Every 
time  I  look  at  Dolores  the  room  begins  to  wiggle  and 
wobble,  so  I  gaze  down  at  my  ballroom  armor  and 
wonder  how  in  the  Hades  I  ever  come  to  be  sittin'  in 
with  a  swell  mob  like  this. 

"It  isn't  often  I  try  to  advise  you,  Kane,"  says  old 
man  Halliday,  "but  I  do  wish  you  would  drop  this — 
eh —  this  boxing  business  now.  You've  done  about 
all  you  set  out  to  do,  and  to  say  that  we're  all  proud  of 
you,  boy,  is  rather  weakly  expressing  it.  It  isn't  neces 
sary  for  you  to  continue  longer  in  this  beastly — " 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     291 

"Yes,  Kane,  do  give  it  up  now !"  chimes  in  Dolores, 
presentin'  the  Kid  with  a  glance  for  which  I  would  of 
give  up  a  leg.  "Please  don't  fight  this — oh,  this  ter 
rible  brute  who  killed  a  man !  I — " 

The  Kid  grins  and  holds  up  his  hand.  "Just  a 
moment,  both  of  you,"  he  says.  "I  am  to  receive  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars — pardon  the  vulgar  mention 
of  money,  but  in  my  case  it  is  obviously  the  incentive 
— for  engaging  in  two  bouts,  the  first  of  which  is  with 
this  Enright  fellow.  I  am  taking  no  more  risk — per 
haps  less — with  him  than  I  have  in  the  other  bouts 
I've  engaged  in.  The  three  hundred  thousand  means 
a  fair  start  back  for  father  and" — he  smiles  at  Dolores 
— "and  at  least  that  you  may  have  a  maid,  a  modest 
shopping  account,  a — " 

"Look  here,  son,"  interrupts  old  man  Halliday,  "I 
appreciate  the  force  of  your  argument,  but  I  do  not 
want  my  son  killed  to  make  a — well,  to  make  a  Roman 
Halliday,  one  might  say !" 

"Good  heavens,  dad,  what  an  atrocious  pun!"  says 
the  Kid.  "Consider  your  case  lost!" 

"You  know  it  will  not  make  any  difference  to  me 
whether  or  not  we  have — I  mean,  /  have  servants  or 
a  shopping  account,  or — or  anything,"  says  Dolores, 
whose  old  man  has  six  dollars  for  every  salmon  in  the 
Columbia  River,  "I'd  love  to  make  my  own  gowns  and 
cook  and — and  everything !" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!"  remarks  her  father,  old  Senator 
Brewster.  "And  yet  they  say  prohibition  has  removed 
all  the  humor  from  dinner  parties!" 

Old  man  Halliday  tries  his  luck  again. 

"At  least,  Kane,"  he  says — "at  least  you  might  hold 


292          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

off  for  a  bit — postpone  this  bout  with  Enright.  If  the 
break  comes  in  Mexicali  Oil — you  recall  that  stock 
I  spoke  to  you  about  the  other  day? — if,  as  I  say,  the 
break  comes,  we  may  not  need  your  three  hundred 
thousand  so  imperatively." 

"Dad,"  says  the  Kid,  still  grinnin',  "just  how  much 
money  have  you  put  in  Mexicali  Oil?" 

"About  every  penny  I  possess,"  says  the  old  man, 
calmly  knockin'  the  ash  off  his  cigar. 

The  Kid  throws  up  both  hands  and  makes  a  face. 
"You're  incurable,  dad,"  he  says,  pretendin'  to  be  sore — 
and  then  he  turns  and  laughs  to  the  others.  "Now  do 
you  see  how  necessary  it  is  for  me  to  earn  that  three 
hundred  thousand  ?  Dad  will  have  us  both  broke  again 
in  a  couple  of  days !"  We've  all  got  up  from  the  table 
by  this  time  and  the  Kid  throws  his  arm  affectionately 
around  his  father's  shoulders.  "Father,"  he  says  with 
a  wink,  "I'm  going  to  invest  my  end  of  the  purse  for 
this  fight  in  a  stock  that  in  the  matter  of  returns  will 
make  your  wildest  plunges  of  the  old  days  seem  tame. 
I  expect  at  least  three  to  one  for  my  original  invest 
ment  !" 

"What  is  the  stock  called?"  asks  the  old  man.  "I'll 
look  it—" 

"You  won't  find  this  listed  anywhere !"  the  Kid  shuts 
him  off.  "Now,  dad,  don't  ask  questions.  Wall  Street 
is  your  game,  mine  is  boxing — temporarily  at  least. 
You  stick  to  your  operations  and  I'll  stick  to  mine,  and 
after  I've  fought  Enright  we'll  see  who's  ahead !" 

The  old  man  nods.  "Very  well,  Kane,"  he  says,  "I 
won't  interfere  again." 

But  he  did. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     293 

Well,  all  this  stock  business  and  the  like  was  Russian 
to  me,  and  I  was  glad  when  Senator  Brewster  made 
the  crack  that  all  us  strong  men  go  into  the  library  for 
coffee  and  a  smoke,  leavin'  the  Kid  and  Dolores  to  play 
tiddledywinks  or  the  etc.,  as  the  Kid  was  blowin'  for 
his  trainin'  quarters  the  next  day  and  they  might  not 
get  a  chance  for  another  game  for  some  time.  As  the 
hour  come  to  leave,  I  am  greatly  surprised  to  see  that 
the  lovely  Dolores's  face  shows  signs  of  the  weeps  as 
she  comes  to  the  door  with  me  and  Kid  Roberts, 
sendin'  the  butler  away.  She's  still  pleadin'  with  the 
Kid  to  pass  up  Enright. 

"Now,  dear,  you  must  stop  worrying,"  says  the  Kid, 
pattin'  a  ivory  and  satin  shoulder.  "I  never  felt  more 
confident  of  victory  in  my  life  than  I  do  regarding  this 
bout!  You've  heard  your  father  and  mine  talk  until 
you  have  the  idea  that  this  Enright  is  some  sort  of 
superbrute — a  human  gorilla  who  will  tear  me  to 
pieces.  Nonsense!  I'll  tell  you  something,  Dolores, 
to  set  your  fears  at  rest.  I  meant  to  keep  this 
as  a  surprise,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  father 
or  the  Senator.  I'm  so  sure  that  I  will  defeat 
Enright  without  extending  myself  that  I  am  going  to 
wager  every  penny  of  my  end  of  the  purse — $150,000 
— that  I  will  win  inside  of  six  rounds!  I  expect  to 
get  odds  of  three  or  four  to  one.  That's  the  invest 
ment  I  had  in  mind  when  I  told  father  I  was  plunging 
in  a  stock  that  would  make  his  Mexicali  Oil  seem  tame. 
Would  I  do  that — risk  everything — if  I  had  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  the  outcome  ?" 

I'm  sorry,  boys  and  girls,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what 
Dolores  said,  because  I  nearly  broke  my  neck  staggerin' 


294          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

down  the  steps  in  a  swoon!     Bettin'  on  the  round 
with  a  tough  nut  like  Enright,  hey?    Woof ! 

The  minute  old  man  Halliday  has  said  good  night. 
After  we  get  to  the  hotel,  I  dragged  the  Kid  in  my 
room  and  shut  the  door. 

"I  ain't  no  keyhole  hound,"  I  says,  "but  bein'  on 
the  steps  up  at  the  house  like  I  was  just  now,  I  heard 
you  tell  Miss  Brewster  you  was  goin'  to  bet  your  end 
of  the  Enright  purse  that  you'll  stop  this  guy  in  six 
rounds." 

"Well,  keep  it  quiet,"  he  says  after  lookin'  at  me 
for  a  minute.  "I  don't  want  my  father  to  know  any 
thing  about  it — yet." 

"You  don't  want — you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you 
actually  intend  makin'  a  sucker  bet  like  that,  do  you?" 
I  gasps. 

"I  was  never  more  in  earnest !"  he  says,  bangin'  his 
fist  down  on  the  bureau.  "The  minute  you  collect  our 
money,  three  days  or  whatever  it  is  before  the  fight, 
you  get  it  down — you'll  know  where — on  me  to  win 
by  a  knockout  inside  of  six  rounds.  I  want  every 
cent  of  it  covered  when  I  step  into  the  ring !" 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  grands !"  I  breathed.  "You're 
cuckoo !" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  says  impatiently.  "Good  Lord,  I 
never  was  surrounded  by  so  many  crape  hangers  in  my 
life!  After  this  fight  I  expect  to  have  something  like 
half  a  million  dollars,  for  I'll  stop  Enright  in  a  couple 
of  rounds  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Halliday !  Or  maybe," 
he  adds,  suddenly  turnin'  a  hard  stare  on  me — "maybe 
you  think  I  won't  ?" 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     295 

"Look  here,"  I  says.  "You'll  win  on  the  bit,  but, 
Kid,  don't  try  to  call  the  round  on  this  guy;  don't  do 
it !  For  one  thing,  he'll  be  in  there  to  stay,  and  they's 
nothin'  in  the  world  harder  to  stop  than  a  tough  tramp 
which  won't  try — won't  open  up,  but  just  dogs  it  to 
keep  on  his  feet  for  a  certain  number  of  frames.  He'll 
curl  up  in  a  knot  and  you'll  break  your  hands  on  his 
head — you'll  never  see  his  jaw  from  the  first  bell! 
If  you  got  to  bet  at  all,  bet  ten  grands — ten  thousand 
bucks,  that's—" 

"I'll  bet  it  all — minus  yours  if  you  want  your  share 
taken  out  first!"  he  interrupts  coldly.  "Your  con 
fidence  in  me  is  certainly  encouraging.  Just  figure 
how  much  you  have  coming,  and — " 

"Oh,  shoot  the  piece  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  I 
says.  "You  know  I'm  with  you  whether  school  keeps 
or  not.  But,  look  here,  we  both  know  you'll  murder 
this  goof,  but  suppose  you  can't  knock  him  stiff  for 
seven  rounds,  even — why,  you're  broke,  ain't  you? 
Ain't  you  slipped  your  old  man  the  rest  of  your  roll  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  says.  "I  have  at  this  minute  about  five 
thousand  dollars.  The  rest  I've  given  father,  and  he 
has  it  tied  up  in  that  oil  stock — which  means  that's 
gone!  It's  all  or  nothing  this  time.  I'll  show  them 
whether  or  not  I'm  through  as  a  fighter — I'll  step  out 
of  that  ring  still  champion  and  worth  half  a  million,  or 
just  a  heavyweight  boxer  without  a  penny,  one  or 
the  other.  Eh — good  night!" 

With  that  he  slams  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  afternoon  we  have  two  callers  before  train 
time.  One  is  Jimmy  McManus,  the  promoter.  After 


296  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

hemmin'  and  hawin'  all  over  the  place,  he  comes  out 
flat  with  a  offer  of  a  $25,000  bonus  for  us  if  we  let 
Enright  stay  fifteen  rounds  so's  the  movin  pictures  of 
the  muss  will  be  worth  somethin'.  The  newspaper 
guff  about  the  Kid  bein'  through  hadn't  fooled  Jimmy. 
Kid  Roberts  escorts  James  to  the  door  politely  and 
tells  him  to  give  his  twenty-five  thousand  fish  to  the 
Red  Cross,  because  he  is  goin'  to  do  his  best  to  stop 
Enright  with  a  punch,  and  to  Hades  with  the  pictures. 

The  second  caller  made  James  McManus  and  his 
$25,000  bribe  look  like  a  piker.  It  was  no  less  than 
Senator  Brewster  himself.  The  Kid  apologizes  for 
goin'  right  on  with  his  packin',  explainin'  that  we  got 
but  a  scant  forty  minutes  to  catch  a  train.  The  Sen 
clears  his  throat  a  couple  of  times,  gives  me  a  four-dol 
lar  cigar,  and  says  maybe  we  ain't  goin'  to  catch  a 
train. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand,  Senator,"  says  the 
Kid,  lookin'  up  quickly  from  his  suit  case.  "There's 
nothing  wrong,  is  there?  Dolores — " 

"Nothing  wrong,  no,"  grunts  the  Senator,  puffin' 
smoke  heavy.  "Look  here,  Kane — according  to  your 
own  statement,  the  only  reason  you're  going  through 
with  this  Enright  fight,  and  the  one  after  that,  is  be 
cause  of  the  $300,000  involved  so  that  you  can  quit  the 
ring  with  a  competence,  that  right?" 

"Exactly !"  says  the  Kid,  slammin'  shut  the  suit 
case. 

"Well,  Kane,"  says  the  Senator.  "Eh— I've  had  a 
conference  with  Dolores,  and  as  you  probably  know 
she's  all  cut  up  over  this  thing  of  you  going  on  fighting 
— eh — especially  this  Enright  bout.  You  know,  my 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     297 

boy,  all  champions  must  go  down  to  defeat  sooner 
or—" 

"Mr.  Brewster — please — we've  gone  all  into  that, 
and  my  train — "  The  Kid  breaks  off,  f  rownin'. 

"Oh,  damn  the  train!"  bursts  out  the  Sen.  "See 
here,  Kane,  step  out  now — retire  from  the  ring  as  you 
are,  an  undefeated  champion,  cancel  this  Enright  bout 
and — and  I'll  make  you  and  Dolores  a  wedding  present 
of  $300,000,  the  exact  amount  you—" 

Somethin'  in  the  Kid's  face  must  of  stopped  him  be 
cause  he  broke  off  short.  The  Kid's  eyebrows  has 
come  together  in  a  hard,  straight  line,  but  in  a  instant 
he's  grinnin'. 

"Senator,"  he  says,  "I  know  you  wouldn't  deliber 
ately  insult  me  for  anything  in  the  world.  Eh — I  can 
see  you're  a  trifle  wrought  up  and — oh,  get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan !"  he  winds  up,  gives  the  Sen's  hand  a  warm 
shake,  grabs  his  suit  case  and  rushes  for  the  door. 
"Come  on!"  he  calls  to  me  (I'm  in  a  trance).  "Good- 
by,  Senator,  and  good  luck — back  in  a  month !" 

Passin'  up  a  total  of  $325,000  in  less  than  a  hour 
without  turnin'  a  hair !  Deliberately  passin'  it  up  and 
takin'  a  chance  of  gettin'  his  head  beat  off —  for 
nothin  if  he  loses  his  bet,  instead. 

Woof — tie  these  college  guys  ! 

Accordin'  to  our  contracts,  both  us  and  Enright 
has  got  to  wind  up  trainin'  near  the  scene  of  the  battle. 
Me  and  Kid  Roberts  come  down  from  the  Maine 
woods  and  took  our  stand  at  Long  Branch,  N.  J., 
where  we'd  trained  for  many's  the  brawl.  The  next 
day  the  sport  writers  and  camera  guys  swoops  down 
on  us  in  droves,  fresh  from  Enright's  camp.  They 


298          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

stuck  around  and  watched  the  Kid  work  out  with 
Dynamite  Jackson  and  a  couple  other  handlers,  shook 
their  heads,  breezed  back  to  New  York,  and  predicted 
a  new  heavyweight  champion  when  Kid  Roberts  and 
Jack  Enright  went  to  the  post.  The  Kid  was  slow, 
fat,  and  wind-broke.  Enright,  in  wonderful  condition, 
was  murderin'  his  sparrin'  partners,  etc.,  and  so  forth. 

I  don't  know  nothin'  about  how  Enright  was.  I 
never  visit  no  rival  camps  before  a  fight,  but  I  do 
know  that  Kid  Roberts  was  far  from  the  young  man 
which  win  the  world's  heavyweight  championship  in 
three  rounds,  just  one  year  before !  For  the  first  time 
since  I'd  been  his  pilot  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him. 
He  went  to  bed  and  got  up  when  he  felt  like  it,  eat 
what  he  wanted,  clowned  his  gym  workouts,  and  did  his 
road  work  in  a  automobile.  To  all  of  my  threats  and 
pleadin's  he  answered  that  he  wasn't  goin'  through  no 
weary  trainin'  grind  for  a  scrap  which  wouldn't  last 
over  a  couple  of  rounds. 

About  a  week  before  the  quarrel  I  suddenly  got 
word  from  no  less  than  Dolores  Brewster  that  she's 
got  to  see  me  at  once  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death 
connected  with  the  fight.  Also,  I  am  not  to  let  the  Kid 
know  about  her  message. 

The  most  beautiful  representative  of  the  adjoinin' 
sex  that  I,  you,  or  anybody  else  ever  seen  is  much  ex 
cited.  The  first  thing  she  wants  to  know  is  whether 
or  not  the  Kid  is  still  goin'  to  bet  his  end  of  the  purse 
that  he'll  flatten  Enright  in  six  rounds.  "When  does  he 
get  this  money?"  she  wants  to  know. 

"I  collect  it,"  I  says,  "three  days  before  we  step  into 
the  ring. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     299 

"Splendid,"  says  Dolores,  lookin'  greatly  relieved 
about  somethin'.  Then  she  puts  everything  she's  got 
on  a  smile,  curls  a  wicked  eyelash  at  me,  pulls  her  chair 
closer,  and  whispers:  "Will  you  do  something  for 
me  if  it — if  it  means  the  happiness  of  Kane  and  my 
self?" 

"Lady,"  I  says,  a  bit  dizzy,  "I  will  start  by  pushin' 
over  the  Woolworth  Buildin',  if  that  will  be  of  any 
help!" 

"You  can  do  more  than  that,  if  you  will,"  she  says, 
thrillin'ly  and  throws  the  smile  into  high.  "Listen!" 

I  listened.  I  listened  for  half  a  hour,  argued  for 
twenty  minutes  of  the  other  half,  and  spent  the  last  ten 
minutes  of  that  hour  half  promisin'  to  do  the  slight 
favor  she  asked,  knowin'  full  well  that  the  best  I  could 
hope  to  get  out  of  it  was  the  worst  of  it. 

Dolores  had  doped  out  that  if  Kid  Roberts  failed 
to  stop  Enright  within  six  rounds  he  would  lose  his 
hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar  bet  and  be  broke. 
I  f  he  went  broke,  he  would  be  forced  to  keep  on  fightin' 
for  another  bank  roll  instead  of  quittin'  the  ring  and 
settlin'  down  with  her  as  advertised.  Therefore  she 
wanted  me  to  bring  her  our  end  of  the  purse  instead 
of  bettin'  it  for  the  Kid  when  I  collected  it.  If  the 
Kid  stopped  Enright  in  a  round  or  two  and  then  looked 
to  me  for  his  winnin's,  Dolores  would  take  all  the  re 
sponsibility  and  blame,  figurin'  that  the  Kid  loved  her 
enough  for  her  to  get  away  with  murder — which  he 
undoubtedly  did.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Kid  failed 
to  knock  Enright  dead  in  the  stipulated  time,  why,  he'd 
still  have  his  $150,000,  which  would  certainly  be  a 
pleasant  surprise. 


300  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

I  says  I  would  think  it  over,  and  that's  what  I  did, 
with  the  results  that  a  couple  of  days  afterward  I 
called  upon  the  charmin'  Dolores  with  a  mysterious- 
lookin'  and  bulgin'  little  black  satchel  in  my  hand,  like 
the  kind  usually  wore  by  bank  messengers.  I  laid  it 
on  the  table  in  front  of  her  without  a  word  and, 
hearin'  footsteps  approachin'  the  room,  Dolores  shoves 
the  bag  into  a  little  wall  safe,  swiftly  spins  the  com 
bination,  and  writes  me  a  receipt  for  $150,000.  That 
windin'  up  the  business  of  the  meetin',  I  took  the 
air. 

At  the  risk  of  losin'  my  lady  readers,  I  have  got  to 
say  that  they  was  nothin'  in  that  satchel  I  give  Dolores 
but  newspapers.  I  had  figured  the  thing  about  like 
this— if  I  failed  to  bet  the  $150,000  and  the  Kid  did 
stop  Enright  in  six  rounds,  he  would  look  to  me  to 
hand  him  back  his  winnin's  at  three  to  one  or  better. 
Then  would  come  the  heavy  crash!  And  whilst 
he'd  prob'ly  forgive  Dolores,  he  would  never  under 
no  circumstances  forgive  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  I  bet  it  and  he  lost,  we'd  still  be  friends  be 
cause  I'd  only  be  carry  in'  out  his  orders.  On  top 
of  all  this,  they  was  always  the  chance  that  Kid  Roberts 
would  stop  Enright  in  a  round  and  by  not  bettin'  his 
dough  for  him  I'd  be  gippin'  out  of  a  fortune  the 
whitest  guy  which  ever  lived. 

To  absolutely  refuse  to  give  Dolores  the  jack  might 
bring  her  to  the  camp  to  upset  the  Kid  on  the  eve 
of  the  fight,  so  I  played  safe  and  took  the  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  fish  down  to  Wall  Street — the  best  place 
to  handle  a  bet  of  that  size  on  anything. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     301 

I  stopped  in  old  man  Halliday's  office  to  leave  the 
dough  with  him  whilst  I  scouted  around  for  the  sportin' 
men. 

"Well,"  he  says,  suddenly,  "perhaps  I  may  be  of 
service.  There  appears  to  be  a  great  deal  of  interest 
in  the  fight  down  here — I've  heard  talk  of  large  wagers 
in  several  offices.  Maybe  /  could  place  the  money  with 
less  difficulty  than  yourself  and — " 

"Say— that  would  be  great!"  I  butts  in.  "If  you'll 
take  the  thing  off  my  hands,  I'll  be  tickled  silly.  Be 
sides,  it'll  look  better — you  layin'  the  jack  instead  of 
me.  If  /  go  around  bettin'  any  such  money  as  this 
that  the  fight  won't  go  six  rounds,  the  wisenheimers  is 
liable  to  think  the  thing's  framed." 

He  nods  and,  puttin'  the  sugar  into  his  safe,  wrote 
me  a  receipt  for  it.  I  sure  had  plenty  of  receipts  that 
day  for  $150,000! 

When  I  got  back  to  the  camp,  the  Kid  is  stretched 
out  on  a  sofa  readin'  a  newspaper.  The  first  thing 
he  says  is  did  I  get  his  money  down.  I  says  I  have 
gave  it  to  a  Wall  Street  bettin'  commissioner  to  place 
the  way  he  told  me,  and  he  says  that's  fine.  Then  he 
calls  me  over  and  shows  me  the  paper. 

"As  I  expected,"  he  says  grimly,  "the  bottom  has 
fallen  out  of  Mexicali  Oil — remember,  that's  the  stock 
my  father  has  all  his  capital  in? — so  he's  whipped 
again!  Poor  dad,"  he  goes  on  pityin'ly,  "he's  too  old 
now  to  match  his  wits  against  those  wolves.  The  steel- 
trap  brain  is  rusted !  I  wish  I  had  made  him  sell  out 
and  bet  his  money  with  mine."  He  jumps  up.  "Well," 
he  laughs,  "we'll  have  plenty  of  money  after  this  fight ! 
But  I'm  sorry  for  dad.  This  thing  must  have  been  an 


302          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

awful  shock  to  his  pride."     He  nods  to  the  paper. 
"Poor  old  pater — they  never  come  back!" 

Well,  fin'ly  the  night  comes  when  we  shoulder  our 
ways  down  a  aisle  of  close-packed,  yellin',  fight-mad 
fans  and  climb  through  the  ropes  opposite  Monsieur 
Jack  Enright  (which  the  sport  writers  has  now 
christened  "Killer"  Enright).  We  continued  right  on 
over  to  his  corner  and  examined  his  bandages,  and 
Enright  kept  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  scowlin'  and  very 
serious. 

"Cheer  up,  it's  all  fun!"  I  says  to  him,  after  his 
goat.  The  sport  writers  laughed,  and  the  telegraph 
instruments  ticked  that  down  into  history. 

"We  come  here  to  fight — not  talk !"  snarls  Enright's 
manager. 

"You'll  get  what  you  come  for,  guy !"  I  says.  "And 
I  have  also  told  the  sport  writers  all  about  that  rabbit 
punch  of  yours,  Enright,  so  watch  your  step  for  the 
few  minutes  you'll  be  in  here!" 

And  then  we  left  him. 

They  was  little  time  wasted  in  fussin'  around.  The 
champ  got  a  fair  hand  when  he  was  introduced — when 
it  come  Enright's  turn  they  rocked  the  buildin'  with 
cheers.  The  men  posed  for  a  couple  of  flashlights, 
and  then — the  bell. 

The  first  round  wasn't  a  minute  old  before  the 
thickest  dumb-bell  in  the  abattoir  knew  that  Kid  Rob 
erts  had  gone  back  eighty-seven  miles  and  that  En- 
right  had  the  chance  of  his  lifetime  if  he  kept  his  head. 
The  crowd  was  with  the  "Killer"  almost  to  a  man; 
they  wanted  to  see  a  new  champion  made.  They  booed 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  303 

and  razzed  every  miss  of  the  Kid's  and  cheered  them 
selves  hoarse  at  Enright's  every  lead.  They  shrieked 
and  howled  for  Enright  to  muss  the  Kid  up,  murder 
him,  knock  him  dead,  goal  the  big  stiff! 

Now,  all  of  this  was  new  to  the  highly  sensitive  and 
proud-spirited  Kid  Roberts.  It  got  under  his  skin, 
murdered  his  usual  cool  judgment  and  perfect  timin'. 
He  was  carryin'  at  least  twelve  pounds  excess  bag 
gage  around  his  waist  line,  he  was  slow,  and  his  anxiety 
to  finish  Enright  swiftly  and  cop  the  heavy  bet,  added 
to  the  hostile  attitude  of  the  mob,  made  him  careless 
and  wild.  The  results  of  all  this  was  that  Enright  took 
the  first  three  rounds  by  a  wide  margin,  usin'  a  wicked 
right  hook  to  the  face  and  poundin'  the  body  with  both 
hands  at  close  quarters  with  deadly  effect. 

The  Kid  rushed  out  to  end  matters  in  the  fourth 
round  and  unluckily  run  into  a  right  smash  to  the  head 
that  drove  him  against  the  ropes,  goofy.  The  mob 
went  crazy,  yellin'  for  Enright  to  finish  him  and,  still 
dazed,  the  Kid  begin  tradin'  wallops  with  one  of  the 
hardest  hitters  that  ever  stepped  into  a  ring.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  Enright  carried  the  heaviest  guns ;  and 
after  he  drove  two  murderous  smashes  to  the  heart,  I 
yelled  for  the  Kid  to  clinch  and  hang  on  till  the  bell. 
But  Kid  Roberts  was  champion,  and  with  the  idiotical 
pride  that's  licked  many's  the  champ  before  him,  he 
shook  his  head  and  stood  toe  to  toe  with  Enright,  givin' 
swing  for  swing  and  hook  for  hook.  Again  I  bellered 
for  the  Kid  to  box  Enright,  which  knew  nothin',  and 
not  to  slug  with  him,  and  this  time  he  took  my  advice 
as  his  head  grew  clearer.  He  began  stabbin'  Enright's 


304  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

face  with  his  long,  snappy  left  and  crossin'  his  right 
to  the  head.  Enright  had  enough  of  this  inside  a  min 
ute,  and  was  hangin'  on  at  the  bell,  lookin'  wildly  to 
his  corner  for  advice.  Nevertheless,  the  crowd  cheered 
him  to  the  echo  when  he  floundered  to  his  corner  and 
booed  the  Kid  as  heartily  when  he  sunk  down  wearily 
on  his  stool. 

Four  rounds  and  Enright  still  on  his  feet  and  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  berries  gone  if  he  stays 
two  more! 

Round  Five  was  tame  compared  to  the  others.  Actin' 
on  my  advice,  Kid  Roberts  saved  his  strength  for  the 
final  effort  in  the  sixth  round  and  made  no  attempt 
to  carry  the  battle  to  Enright.  Payin'  no  attention  to 
the  frantic  howls  of  the  mob  to  open  up  and  take  a 
chance,  the  champ  danced  lightly  around  the  clumsy 
Enright,  pepperin'  him  with  left  jabs  and  occasionally 
sinkin'  a  torrid  right  to  the  wind,  clinchin'  when  the 
goin'  got  rough.  They  was  wrapped  in  a  fond  em 
brace  on  the  ropes  at  the  bell. 

The  sixth  round  was  one  that  will  be  recalled  by 
anybody  which  was  there  when  they  have  forgot  their 
first  names !  The  sound  of  the  gong  hadn't  quite  died 
out  when  the  Kid  was  on  Enright  like  a  famished 
tiger.  He  ripped  a  left  and  right  to  the  face,  drawin' 
the  blood  in  a  stream  and,  as  Enright  vainly  tried  to 
dive  into  a  clinch,  the  champ  switched  his  attack  to 
the  body  and  soon  had  Enright's  side  a  large  blotch  of 
crimson.  Enright  begin  swingin'  wildly,  when  a  left 
hook  caught  him  square  on  the  button  and  he  fell  in 
a  heap.  He  was  so  badly  dazed  he  never  waited  for 
no  count  but  come  springin'  up  mechanically,  both  arms 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     305 

curled  protectin'ly  around  his  jaw.  It  would  of 
been  a  easy  matter  for  the  Kid  to  step  aside  and 
measure  him,  but  he  lost  his  head  and  wasted  a  dozen 
haymakers  on  Enright's  neck  and  shoulders. 

The  crowd  was  now  all  composed  of  lunatics,  and 
I  died  a  million  deaths  as  the  seconds  slipped  by  with 
Enright  still  on  his  feet  and  the  entire  bank  roll  de- 
pendin'  on  a  knockout  in  this  round. 

Enright,  seemin'ly  gettin'  stronger  on  punishment, 
followed  the  advice  from  his  corner  and  stepped  into 
the  Kid,  workin'  both  hands  fast.  Again  the  Kid 
dropped  him,  with  a  glancin'  right  this  time,  and  again 
Enright  bounced  up,  after  a  count  of  four.  Tough? 
They  didn't  make  'em  any  tougher  than  this  baby! 
Both  landed  hard  rights  to  the  head  and  then  the  Kid 
was  short  with  a  left  to  the  jaw.  Enright  put  a  wicked 
right  to  the  body  and  brought  a  fresh  roar  from  the 
crowd  when  he  doubled  the  Kid  up  with  a  left  smash 
to  the  same  place.  I  had  a  watch  in  my  hand  and  I 
yelled  to  the  Kid  that  they's  less  than  a  minute  to  go 
and  to  knock  Enright  dead  or  we're  broke.  He  shook 
himself  desperately  and  slammed  Enright  all  over  the 
ring,  but  this  guy  curls  up,  bends  almost  to  the  floor, 
leaves  nothin'  uncovered  and  takes  it.  His  idea  now 
was  to  weather  the  storm  and  stick  out  the  round — 
nothin'  more.  Crazy  with  the  thoughts  of  what  he 
was  losin',  the  Kid  deliberately  stepped  away,  droppin' 
his  hands  to  lead  Enright  on.  Enright's  head  peeped 
over  his  bent  arm  and  like  a  flash  the  Kid  shot  a  ter 
rific  right  to  the  jaw,  droppin'  him  like  a  poled  ox. 
And  the  very  instant  that  big  tramp  hit  the  floor  for  a 
sure  knockout,  the  bell  rung,  endin'  the  sixth  round 


306          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

and  endin'  Kid  Roberts's  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
bucks!  The  gong  had  saved  Enright — he'd  stayed  the 
six  rounds. 

Well,  it  was  a  funeral  in  our  corner  as  the  Kid  slowly 
slumped  down  on  his  stool  and  bent  his  battered  head  in 
his  hands.  They  was  nothin'  for  me  to  say — nothin'  to 
do  but  pat  the  Kid  on  his  quiverin'  back  and  whisper 
to  him  like  you  do  to  a  baby  or  your  girl,  as  the 
handlers  frantically  worked  over  him.  After  all  his 
struggles  to  pile  up  a  roll,  he  ain't  got  a  nickel.  Havin' 
bet  and  lost  his  end  of  the  purse,  he's  fightin'  Enright 
for  nothin'  from  now  on.  His  old  man  has  evidently 
been  cleaned  out  by  the  bust  "id  Dolores  Brewster 
is  now  out  of  reach  till  he  can  climb  back  again. 

"Listen,  Kid!"  I  pants  in  his  ear.  "Stall  it  out 
with  this  guy  till  the  fifteenth  anyways,  and  maybe 
I  can  bull  McManus  into  thinkin'  we  deliberately  let 
Enright  stay  for  the  pictures — see  ?  Maybe  I  can  make 
him  give  us  that  twenty-five  grand  bonus  he  offered, 
and  we'll  have  that  anyways!  Hang  on  to  him  till 
you're  stronger  and — " 

The  Kid  looks  up  for  the  first  time,  like  a  guy  just 
comin'  out  of  ether.  His  glassy  eyes  swings  around 
on  the  mob  which  is  still  poundin'  their  seats  and 
howlin'  for  Enright  to  knock  him  dead. 

"I'm  not  thinking  how  long  I  can  stay,"  he  says  in  a 
husky  snarl,  "I'm  thinking  how  quick  I  can  win!  I  was 
a  fool  and,  like  all  fools,  I've  paid  the  price — lost  every 
thing — may  lose  my  championship  too.  Stay  fifteen 
rounds?  I  can't  go  two  more  rounds!  I've  punched 
myself  out  on  this  fellow — no  condition — should  have 
trained — knew  it  all — "  His  head  swings  up,  and  he 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     307 

glares  over  at  Enright's  corner  with  his  one  good  eye. 
"Mister  Enright,"  he  mutters,  "you  represent  Fate! 
I've  knocked  you  down  a  couple  of  times  and  you're 
still  there — grinning  at  me.  Well,  here  goes  for  my  last 
try  against  you — there  will  only  be  one  of  us  when  the 
bell  rings  for  the  end  of  this — " 

The  gong  cut  him  off. 

Sensin'  the  end,  the  mob  is  standin'  on  their  seats 
when  the  men  come  together.  Enright  missed  a  left 
swing,  but  connected  with  a  right  that  bent  the  Kid's 
already  tremblin'  knees  and  laid  his  cheek  open  a  good 
four  inches — the  ensuin'  gore  makin'  it  look  much 
worse.  This  would  of  v—und  it  up  for  a  guy  with  less 
heart  than  the  Kid,  but  it  acted  on  the  champ  like  a 
tonic.  He  was  hurt,  busted,  and,  for  the  first  time 
durin'  the  muss — mad.  Before,  he'd  only  been  anxious 
to  end  it  quick  to  win  his  bet,  now  he  wanted  Enright's 
heart !  He  knew  he  only  had  one  flurry,  one  flash 
left  in  his  tired,  achin'  body,  and  he  sailed  in  to  kill 
or  get  killed.  He  rushed  Enright  to  the  ropes  and, 
pinnin'  him  there,  drove  a  smashin'  left  to  the  wind 
with  a  "plunk"  that  was  heard  in  the  last  row. 

A  minute  before  the  mob  had  been  callin'  the  Kid 
a  bum,  now  they  are  with  him  to  a  man  because  he's 
out  in  front.  Such  is  life  in  the  prize  ring  and — any 
thing  else!  On  the  break,  Enright  swung  a  wild 
haymaker  that  landed  high  on  the  Kid's  head,  but  that 
was  the  Killer's  last  effort.  As  he  rushed  in,  both  hands 
swingin'  wildly,  the  Kid  stepped  to  one  side  and  hooked 
his  right  flush  to  the  jaw,  tumblin'  Enright  to  the  can 
vas.  Enright's  handlers  yelled  for  him  to  stay  down, 
but  he  shook  his  head  and  staggered  to  his  feet.  The 


308  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

fast  weakenin'  Kid  measured  him  with  a  left  and  then 
crashed  him  to  the  mat  with  another  right  hook. 
Enright  never  moved  a  muscle  whilst  he  was  counted 
out,  the  Kid  standin'  over  him  lookin'  at  the  hysterical 
crowd,  which  is  now  tellin'  each  other  at  the  top  of 
their  voices  that  he's  the  greatest  champion  that  ever 
lived. 

We  are  still  world's  heavyweight  champion — but  we 
ain't  got  a  nickel ! 

Dolores  and  Senator  Brewster  is  at  the  hotel  when 
we  get  back,  and  when  I  seen  her  with  the  satchel  I  had 
give  her  in  her  hand  I  turned  pale.  The  Kid  shakes 
the  Senator's  hand,  kisses  Dolores,  apologizes  for  his 
battered  appearance,  like  that  was  of  any  importance, 
and  then  he  begins  to  tell  her  he  ain't  got  a  dime  in 
the  world. 

"Yes,  you  have,  Kane  dear,"  butts  in  Dolores,  her 
s  shinin'.  "I  saved  it  for  you — your  hundred  and 
i..;y  thousand  is  right  here!"  And  she  puts  the  satchel 
on  a  table. 

Woof !  Can  you  imagine  my  sensations  right  then  ? 
I  am  wonderin'  which  window  I'll  leap  out  of  when 
Dolores  opens  that  bag  and  sees  nothin'  but  newspa 
pers.  The  Kid  looks  kind  of  bewildered  as  Dolores 
begins  strugglin'  with  the  catch  on  the  satchel. 

"Just  a  minute,  Miss  Brewster,"  I  says  in  a  kind  of 
muffled  voice,  steppin'  forward.  "Don't  open  that 
bag — it — eh — they  ain't  a  nickel  in  it!" 

And  then,  whilst  the  Kid  looked  from  Dolores  to 
me,  his  suddenly  hardened  features  gradually  softenin' 
and  her  usually  soft  eyes  gradually  hardenin',  I  told 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     309 

'em  how  I  had  fooled  Dolores  and  bet  the  Kid's  money 
like  he  told  me.  How  I'd  met  his  old  man  in  his  office 
by  chance  and  gave  him  the  entire  roll  to  bet  that  the 
Kid  would  stop  Enright  in  six  rounds.  I  wave  old 
man  Halliday's  receipt  for  the  jack  at  the  busted  Kid. 

Nobody  said  nothin'  for  a  minute — the  toughest 
sixty  seconds  I  ever  spent  in  my  life!  Then  Dolores 
spoke,  her  eyes  scorchin'  me.  "Oh !"  she  kind  of  flung 
at  me.  "And  I  trusted  you!" 

Never  in  her  life  will  that  girl  believe  I'm  not 
crooked ! 

"No !"  says  the  Kid  suddenly,  throwin'  an  arm 
around  me.  "You  must  not  misjudge  him,  Dolores, 
you  must  not  be  angry.  I'd  stake  my  life  on  this  man's 
honesty — frequently  have — and  he  did  right!  He 
followed  my  instructions  to  the  letter — " 

A  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  him,  and  old  man 
Halliday  walks  in,  grabs  the  Kid  and  they  hug  each 
other.  "Still  champion !"  says  the  old  man,  his  chest 
out  a  extry  foot. 

"Still  champion,  dad !"  smiles  the  Kid.  "But  we're 
back  about  four  years.  I'm  penniless,  as  you  probably 
know.  Of  course,  you  placed  the  money?" 

"Yes,"  says  the  old  man,  "I  placed  it — /  placed  it 
in  Mexicali  Oil  and,  as  for  being  penniless — "  He 
laughs,  kinda  hysterically.  "You're  rather  hard  to 
please,  Kane.  I  should  say,  roughly,  that  at  this 
minute  you're  worth  half  a  million!" 

"Holy  mackerel!"  I  yells  and  fell  into  a  chair. 
This  stuff  is  tough  on  the  heart!  The  rest  seemed 
speechless. 


310  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

"But — but — "  stammers  the  whitefaced  Kid,  "the 
bottom  fell  out  of  Mexicali  Oil — I  saw  it  in  the  news 
papers — " 

"Some  days  ago,  of  course/'  beams  the  old  man.  "I 
— ah — we  attended  to  that,  and  that's  when  I 
bought — with  your  heaven-sent  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand !  The  money  was  brought  to  me  to  wager 
for  you  and,  taking  your  advice,  I  stuck  to  my  own 
game.  The  long-promised  gusher  was  brought  in  this 
morning  and  when  I  ceased  operations  this  afternoon 
I  held  certified  checks  to  the  tune  of  some  four  hun 
dred  and  eighty  thousand  dollars  and — well,  have  you 
seen  this?" 

He  hauls  a  extry  from  his  pocket,  and  on  the  front 
page  in  large  type  it  says : 

J.  A.  HALLIDAY  COMES  BACK! 

Ex- Wizard  of  Wall  Street 

Wins  Fortune  in  Oil. 

Wild  Scenes  on  Curb ! 

In  a  adjoining  column  is : 
ROBERTS  STOPS  ENRIGHT  IN  SEVENTH. 

"Well,"  says  the  Kid,  kinda  dazed,  "all  this  is  too 
much  for  me — I'm — I'm  bewildered!"  He  grabs  his 
father's  hands  and  his  eyes  is  very  damp.  "Dad."  he 
says,  "I — you  make  me  feel — eh — futile!  The  old 
master,  eh?"  He  straightens  up  and  looks  from  one 
to  the  other  of  us.  "You  must  excuse  me,"  he 
apologizes,  "I'm  a  bit  used  up.  I've  just  come  through 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  311 

the  hardest  battle  of  my  career,  and  I  took  a  lot  of 
punishment — but — I'm  still  champion!" 

The  old  man  nods  and  picks  up  the  paper,  gazin'  at 
the  glarin'  headlines. 

"Now  that"  he  says,  with  the  grin  of  a  kid,  "that 
is  exactly  the  way  /  feel !" 

The  bell. 


ROUND  TWELVE 
JOAN  OF  NEWARK 

THE  idea  that  he  was  invincible  took  Napoleon  from 
the  island  of  Corsica  to  the  throne  of  the  world.  The 
same  belief  took  him  from  the  throne  of  the  world  to 
the  island  of  St.  Helena. 

As  soon  as  the  average  guy  gets  to  be  champion  of 
anything,  whether  it's  pitchin'  quoits  or  runnin'  empires, 
his  regard  for  himself  reaches  a  point  that's  hard  for 
the  rest  of  us  to  understand.  When  he  was  battle-axin' 
his  way  up,  the  attempts  of  the  other  bird  to  beat  him 
made  him  sore  and  in  settin'  out  to  take  this  one  baby 
he  incidentally  shoved  himself  ahead  of  the  entire  field. 
But  once  he  arrives  at  the  top  and  some  other  guy 
announces  he's  out  to  shove  him  off,  your  champ  don't 
get  mad,  he  just  laughs — laughs  so  hard  he  loses  his 
balance  and  you  don't  have  to  shove  him,  he  tumbles 
off! 

Let  us  take  the  case  of  Kid  Roberts,  for  the  example. 

After  the  Kid  smashed  Jack  Enright  down  and  out 
in  seven  rounds,  Jimmie  McManus  was  busier  than  a 
three-headed  elephant  in  a  peanut  factory,  scourin'  the 
country  for  the  second  victim.  Meanwhile,  this  En- 
right  ducked  up  to  Buffalo  to  gather  what  looked  like 
some  terrible  soft  jack.  He  made  a  overnight  match 

312 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  313 

with  Knockout  Pierce,  a  guy  which  nobody  but  Pierce's 
father  and  mother  had  ever  heard  of  up  to  then,  and 
which  looked  like  a  push  over. 

This  brawl  cost  Monsieur  Jacques  Enright  exactly 
$40,000,  which  was  what  McManus  was  goin'  to  tip 
him  for  his  second  quarrel  with  Kid  Roberts.  Knock 
out  Pierce  ended  the  fight  a  minute  and  a  half  before 
the  bell  in  the  first  round  with  a  terrific  right  hook  to 
the  jaw.  Enright  was  out  so  long  that  when  he  come 
to  the  first  thing  he  asked  was  whether  or  not  the  draft 
law  had  passed  Congress. 

Well,  of  course,  that  was  the  curtain  for  Enright 
and  the  fortunate  young  Mr.  Knockout  Pierce  become 
the  boy  wonder  of  fistiana.  Always  a  cold-eyed 
gambler,  Jimmy  McManus  hesitated,  however,  about 
signin'  him  to  meet  Kid  Roberts.  The  punch  that 
knocked  Enright  dead  might  of  been  a  fluke  and  James 
didn't  want  to  hire  nobody  which  the  Kid  would  stop 
with  his  first  feint.  Immediately  the  typewriters  opened 
up  on  us  from  all  over  the  ex-Land  of  the  Spree.  We 
was  accused  of  pickin'  boloneys  and  bein'  scared  stiff 
of  Pierce  which  had  flattened  the  tough  Enright  in  less 
than  a  round,  whereas  the  champion  had  required  seven 
frames  for  the  same  job.  Nine  out  every  ten  of  them 
sport  writers  knew  in  their  hearts  that  it  was  the  beatin' 
Enright  had  got  from  the  Kid  which  softened  him  up 
and  made  him  a  mark  for  Pierce.  How  the  so  ever, 
McManus  quit  to  the  newspapers  and  signed  Knockout 
Pierce  to  meet  Kid  Roberts  in  a  twenty-round  melee  for 
the  heavyweight  championship  of  the  wide,  wide  world. 

A  lot  of  weeks  was  throwed  away  like  they  always 
is  before  a  championship  fight,  in  selectin'  the  time, 


314          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  place,  and  the  referee  for  this  quarrel.  This 
wasn't  our  fault.  Kid  Roberts  bad  about  the  same 
interest  in  who.  where,  and  when  he  was  groin'  to  box 
as  I  have  in  tbe  price  of  putty  at  Budapest.  Like  all 
champions,  he  figured  himself  invincible.  Understand, 
the  boy  didn't  brag  about  it ;  Kid  Roberts  and  conceit 
was  as  far  apart  as  6  and  6.000.  He  looked  on  him 
self  as  bein'  unbeatable  as  calmly  as  he  regarded  the 
risin'  son — but  also,  with  the  same  belief  that  it  was 
a  fact.  From  the  time  I  bought  his  contract  from 
Dummy  Carney  for  a  hundred  fish  when  he  was  a 
nervous,  g"*1",  preliminary  boloney  till  the  day  he  quit 
the  ring,  the  Kid  ducked  nobody,  drawed  no  color  lines, 
or  argued  over  weights,  distance,  or  referees.  He  left 
everything  to  my  judgment  and  the  tougher  they  come 
the  better. 

So.  bein'  around  New  York,  and  havin'  no  more 
iotaest  in  Knockout  Pierce  than  he  ever  did  in  any 
of  his  comin'  opponents,  this  delay  in  rinchin'  the  fight 
tickled  the  Kid  silly. 

For  one  thing,  it  give  him  some  time  to  devote  to 
Dolores  Brewster — which  would  of  caused  Geopatra 
to  jump  in  the  handiest  lake — and  for  another  thing, 
it  give  him  a  chance  to  do  some  campaignin'  for  her 
father,  which  at  that  time  was  runnin'  for  reelection 
to  the  U.  S.  Senate.  Dolores  headed  a  committee  of 
Janes,  whilst  the  Kid  had  organized  a  bunch  of  his 
ex-playmates  from  sweet  old  Yale  and  went  hithers 
and  yon  about  the  State  makin'  speeches  for  Senator 
Brewster.  By  a  strange  coincidence,  as  we  remark  on 
the  campus,  the  Senator  was  a  former  New  Haven 
cut-up  himself. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     315 

Now  I  had  no  objections  to  Kid  Roberts  helpin' 
Senator  Brewster  to  breeze  home  in  front,  because  be 
sides  bein'  a  forty-six  carat  fight  fan,  as  familiar  a 
figure  as  the  referee  at  all  the  big  bouts,  the  Sen  of 
course,  was  the  Kid's  comin'  father-in-law  and  a  all- 
around  regular  guy.  But  I  did  holler  murder  about  the 
Kid  neglectin'  his  trainin',  stayin'  up  to  all  hours  of 
the  night  campaignin'  for  the  Senator,  fillin'  himself 
up  with  this  fancy  and  fattenin'  chow  at  these  dinner 
parties  Dolores  was  always  givin',  and  chasin'  back  and 
forth  to  Long  Island  superintendin'  the  buildin'  of  the 
palace  him  and  her  was  goin'  to  live  happy  ever  after 
in.  The  long,  tough  years  of  the  strict  and  monoto 
nous  trainin'  grind,  the  early-to-bed  and  early-to-rise 
thing,  duckin'  the  jazz  and  practically  livin'  like  a  monk. 
had  all  come  to  a  end  now  accordin'  to  the  Kid's  way 
of  thinkin'.  He  was  enjoyin'  himself  with  this  polit 
ical  campaignin',  seein'  Dolores  every  day.  and  loungin' 
around  in  a  dress  suit  after  6  p.  m.  where  they  was 
soft  lights  and  music  and  good-lookin',  blue-blooded 
Janes,  instead  of  the  reekin'  din  of  a  smoke  filled  fight 
club  and  the  smell  of  blood  and  arnica.  He  didn't 
want  to  be  bothered,  and  when  Knockout  Pierce  come 
to  New  York  to  box  Gunner  Macy,  Kid  Roberts  re 
fused  to  go  with  me  for  the  purpose  of  gettin'  a  line 
on  Pierce's  wares. 

"Well.  7  went — and  I  seen  enough  to  keep  me  awake 
many's  the  night  in  the  next  few  months!  Knockout 
Pierce,  a  cold-eyed,  snarlin'.  six-foot,  220-pound 
fightin'  machine  of  bone  and  muscle,  let  Gunner  Macy 
stay  two  rounds  so's  to  give  his  first  metropolitan 
audience  somethin'  to  talk  about.  He  presented  the  be- 


316          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

wildered  Macy  with  a  sparrin'  lesson,  let  the  Gunner 
crack  him  to  show  the  sharps  he  could  take  it,  and 
flitted  about  the  ring  like  a  startled  ghost  till  twice  the 
Gunner  fell  on  his  ear  from  throwin'  wallops  at  Pierce 
that  missed  by  fractions  of  a  inch.  Why,  this  baby 
was  clever  enough  to  of  boxed  ten  rounds  under  a 
needle  shower  and  never  get  hit  by  a  drop  of  water, 
and  oh,  how  he  could  sock!  A  curvin'  round-armed 
right  swing  twenty  seconds  after  the  start  of  the  third 
round  sent  Gunner  Macy  to  dreamland  and  the  cus 
tomers  went  home  swearin'  they'd  see  the  Kid  Roberts- 
Knockout  Pierce  quarrel  if  it  was  staged  on  Mars. 
Well,  at  that,  it  would  of  been  well  worth  the  trip ! 

A  week  or  so  after  this  a  big  show  is  put  on  at  a 
theatre  in  the  land  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  for  the  benefit 
of  Thirsty  Timbuctoo,  Starvin'  Siberia,  Hungry  Hun 
gary,  or  Sufferin'  Sebastopol.  I  forget  now  which  one 
of  our  League  of  Poor  Relations  was  goin'  to  get  this 
jack.  Anyways  the  Kid  dropped  everything,  as  he 
always  did  to  help  any  charity,  and  appeared  on  the  bill 
in  a  exhibition  with  a  sparrin'  partner. 

I  was  sittin'  in  his  dressin'  room  waitin'  for  him  to 
come  off,  when  the  guy  which  keeps  the  yokels  away 
from  the  stage  door  comes  in  and  hands  me  a  card.  It 
says  like  this: 

JOAN  STILLWELL 
The  Newark  Evening  Yell 

A  woman  sport  writer  is  a  bit  new,  I  thinks.  Still 
and  all,  I  have  never  been  no  ladies'  man — in  fact  I 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS  317 

have  ducked  the  adjoinin'  sex  all  my  life,  thereby  missin' 
a  lot  of  fun  and  a  equal  amount  of  trouble.  Whilst 
I  am  hesitatin',  the  doorkeeper  butts  in  with  the  in 
formation  that  since  he  has  been  holdin'  down  his  pres 
ent  portfolio  he  has  seen  more  breath-takin'  young 
women  than  Flo  Ziegfeld  ever  did,  but  the  girl  which 
was  waitin'  to  see  Kid  Roberts  would  of  made  Colum 
bus  forget  what  he  sailed  from  Spain  for.  After 
hearin'  this  sensational  piece  of  news,  I  figured  it  was 
no  more  than  polite  to  see  what  the  young  lady  wished. 

I  barely  got  time  to  smooth  my  hair  when  into  the 
dressin'  room  steps  what  all  the  poets  thinks  Eve 
looked  like,  except,  of  course,  she  was  dressed  differ 
ent.  They  is  no  more  use  of  me  attemptin'  to  describe 
Joan  Stillwell  than  they  is  of  me  tryin'  to  cross  the 
Pacific  on  a  motorcycle.  I  may  give  you  a  faint  idea 
of  her  when  I  say  that,  hard-boiled  as  I  am,  she  looked 
as  good  to  my  startled  eyes  as  Venus,  $5,000  a  week, 
a  California  sunset,  all  the  peaches  and  cream  in  the 
world,  the  Prince  of  Wales's  future,  Rockefeller's 
bank  roll,  and  Mary  Pickf ord !  A  set  of  classy  scenery 
in  no  ways  concealed  a — eh — figure  which  would  of 
drove  Helen  from  Troy  to  suicide,  and  I  suppose  when 
Joan  reads  this  she'll  laugh  herself  sick. 

Anyways,  boys  and  girls,  by  the  time  she  had  raised 
a  pair  of  blue  eyes  which  give  me  more  kick  than  I 
ever  got  over  a  bar  before  the  plague,  I  am  as  short 
of  breath  as  I  am  of  degrees  from  Oxford. 

"Oh — pardon  me,  is  Mister  Roberts  here?"  she 
asks,  gettin'  a  bit  red  under  my  dumfounded  stare. 

"He  is  for  all  /  know,"  I  says,  with  a  goofy  grin. 
"Look  around — I'm  dizzy!" 


318  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

She  gazes  at  me  closely  for  a  second,  and  then  she 
smiles.  She  knew  she  had  goaled  me  all  right — she'd 
probably  watched  'em  swoon  away  like  that  since  her 
fifteenth  birthday.  Still  out  on  my  feet,  I  got  her  a 
chair  and  asked  her  what  she  wished,  prepared  to  see 
that  she  got  it  if  it  was  Niagara  Falls. 

"Why,  I  wanted  to  interview  the  champion  for  the 
'Evening  Yell,' "  she  tells  me.  "I  intend  doing  some 
articles  on  him  from  a  woman's  viewpoint  for  the 
sporting  page.  I — I  won't  keep  him  long — just  so  I 
can  get  a  few  interesting  facts  about  his  rise  to  the 
top  of  his  profession  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. 
You  are  his  manager,  aren't  you  ?" 

I  am  still  in  a  trance,  but  manage  to  say  yes. 

"Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  a  few  things  while  I'm 
waiting  for  him,  then,"  she  says,  tryin'  not  to  giggle, 
I  suppose.  "For  instance,  is  it  really  true  that  he  is 
a  Yale  man?" 

Well,  I  was  gettin'  kind  of  used  to  this  dazzlin' 
beauty  then,  and  I  cut  loose  with  well-oiled  and  free- 
swingin'  tongue  on  my  favorite  subject,  to  the  viz., 
Kid  Roberts.  Whilst  Joan  of  Newark  listened  with 
glistenin'  eyes,  I  told  her  all  the  stuff  you  know  about, 
and  she  seemed  to  be  eatin'  it  up,  only  interruptin'  now 
and  then  to  ask  a  question  about  a  date  or  the  like 
and  mark  it  down  in  her  notebook.  She  seemed  to 
think  it  marvelous  that  the  Kid  was  due  to  marry  into 
the  family  of  a  U.  S.  Senator  and  that  his  father  had 
made  such  a  wonderful  comeback,  and  she  asked  me 
a  lot  about  that.  Well,  I  aimed  to  satisfy  the  girl,  and 
I  was  as  full  of  details  as  a  income-tax  blank. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     319 

Whilst  she's  still  cross-examinin'  me,  in  comes  no 
less  than  Kid  Roberts  himself.  I  was  watchin'  close, 
and  I  seen  the  deep  breath  he  took  before  he  gazed  at 
me  and  then  back  to  her  with  a  sudden  smile.  Joan 
has  stood  up  the  minute  he  come  in,  and  them  sapphire 
eyes  of  hers  showed  that  the  Kid  had  registered  heavy 
with  our  fair  young  visitor.  Kid  Roberts  was  a  natural 
lady  assassin,  if  they  ever  was  one.  Lookin'  from  one 
to  the  other  of  'em  give  me  the  blues — not  that  I  had 
my  fears  about  the  Kid  forgettin'  Dolores.  It  just 
happened  to  bring  to  my  mind  what  a  fat  chance  / 
had  of  ever  grabbin'  off  for  myself  anyone  like  either 
Dolores  or  Joan,  and  right  then  and  there  I  knew  that 
nothin'  less  than  a  duplicate  of  'em  would  do. 

In  talkin'  about  his  future  plans,  the  Kid  tells  Joan 
how  tickled  he'll  be  when  he  has  fought  Knockout 
Pierce  and  retired,  as  whilst  he  liked  boxin',  he  hated 
the  prize  ring  and  its  "sordid,  bestial  atmosphere!"  as 
he  called  it. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mister  Halli- 
day !"  says  Joan,  callin'  him  by  his  real  name  like  he 
asked  her.  "I  wish  my  little  brother  could  hear  those 
sentiments  coming  from  you,  the  world's  champion 
boxer.  You  know" — she  smiles  cutely — "you're  a  god 
to  him ;  his  room  is  literally  covered  with  your  pictures 
from  the  sporting  magazines !" 

"He  is  a  boxing  enthusiast?"  asks  the  Kid  politely. 

"He's  a  little  imp!"  laughs  Joan.  "But  the  best- 
hearted,  cleanest,  and  manliest  little  fellow  in  the 
world,"  she  adds  proudly,  lookin'  from  me  to  the  Kid 
like  she  would  love  to  see  somebody  try  and  deny  it. 
"Jimmy  has  designs  on  the  lightweight  championship," 


320  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

she  explains.  "He's  a  shipping  clerk  by  day  and  "One- 
Round  Stillwell/  or  some  such  horrible  person,  by  night 
at  those  awful  clubs.  Jimmy  loves  me,  and  ordinarily 
I  can  do  anything  with  him — there's  just  the  two  of 
us,  you  know —  but  he  is  determined  to  be  a  prize 
fighter.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  ask  you — to — to — see  him, 
Mister  Halliday,  and  speak  to  him  as  you  did  to  me," 
she  winds  up  earnestly.  "He's  such  a  young  boy 
and—" 

"We'll  both  talk  with  him,  Miss  Stillwell,"  butts  in 
the  Kid,  as  she  hesitates.  "And  I  think  I  know  of  a 
perfectly  harmless  way  of  showing  your  brother  what 
a  little  chump  he  is  to  throw  away  his  best  years  in 
the  prize  ring.  I'll  be  glad  to  help."  He  turns  to  me. 
"Find  out  where  the  boy  is  fighting,  old  man,"  he  says, 
"and  bring  him  over  to  see  me.  If  arguments  fail,  I 
think  he  would  be  glad  of  a  chance  to  make  himself 
useful  around  the  gym.  We  can  even  intimate  to  him 
that  he's  part  of  my — er — camp,  and  I  think,"  he 
winds  up,  turnin'  back  to  Joan,  "I  think  that  about  a 
week  of  the  hard  and  thankless  work  will  cure  him 
quicker  than  anything  any  of  us  might  tell  him.  Want 
to  try  it  ?" 

"I  think  you  are  perfectly  splendid — thanks  awfully !" 
says  Joan,  throwin'  her  smile  into  high.  "You  can 
find  him  at  nights  around  the  Aldine  Athletic  Club 
here.  Most  any  of  the  men  can  point  him  out  to  you — 
in  fact,  he  already  has  quite  a  swarm  of  admirers. 
And  now  I  won't  bother  you  any  longer;  good-bye 
and  thanks,  both  of  you,  for  everything!" 

Gee,  but  that  room  looked  empty  after  she'd  went ! 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     321 

"Kid,"  I  says  to  Roberts,  still  sniffin'  the  perfume  she 
left  in  the  air,  "for  a  damsel  like  that  I  would  cut  off 
both  arms  with  my  face  wreathed  in  smiles !" 

"You'd  find  yourself  at  a  disadvantage,  then,  if  you 
won  her,"  he  grins,  gettin'  into  his  citizen's  clothes. 
"She  certainly  appears  to  be  a  charming  girl,  and  I 
wish  you  luck!" 

"Wish  me  luck?"  I  sighs — ain't  love  tough,  hey? 
"Why,  I  got  the  same  identical  chance  of  makin'  Miss 
Stillwell  as  I  have  of  bein*  elected  the  next  king  of 
England  by  acclamation !" 

"Look  here,"  says  the  Kid,  stoppin'  in  the  midst  of 
combin'  his  hair  and  comin'  over  to  lay  his  hands  on 
my  shoulders.  "Don't  ever  let  me  hear  you  talk  in 
that  strain  again !  I've  known  you  now  for  almost  four 
years — we've  been  together,  fair  weather  and  foul.  My 
success  has  rested  more  than  once  upon  your  honesty, 
judgment,  and  courage.  You  assume  a  hard-boiled 
cynicism,  but  you're  a  darn  big  fraud,  old  fellow,  and 
the  finer  things  of  life  have  as  strong  an  appeal  to  you 
as  they  do  to  the  'drawing-room  set'  that  you  pretend 
to  ridicule.  You're  a  he-man,  with  the  heart  of,  no 
doubt,  your  mother,  and  if  you  had  a  single  funda 
mental  weakness  of  character  you  never  could  have 
hidden  it  from  me,  during  what  we've  been  through 
since  I  got  into  this  infernal  game !  I  know  you  better 
than  you  do  yourself — far  better — and  if  you  were  my 
brother  I'm  sure  I'd  boast  of  the  relationship.  So 
don't  patronize  yourself  old  boy;  you're  as  good  as  the 
next  one  and  better  than  most.  If  Joan  Stillwell  is  to 
be  the  one,  she  is  a  very  fortunate  young  woman !" 
Even  though  I  knew  they  was  none  of  the  above  true, 


322          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

I  found  more  difficulty  with  my  Adam's  apple  for  the 
space  of  a  second  than  I  have  had  in  years.  Likewise, 
I  seemed  to  have  got  somethin'  in  my  eyes. 

"Kid,"  I  says,  fin'ly,  "I— I— you  big  stiff !" 

And  grabbin'  one  of  his  shoes  from  the  floor,  I 
heaved  it  at  him  for  the  purposes  of  changin'  the  sub 
ject  and — eh — gettin'  control.  .  .  . 

Well,  a  couple  of  days  after,  me  and  the  Kid  is  sittin' 
in  the  rooms  at  the  hotel,  when  the  desk  phones  up  to 
find  out  will  we  see  some  reporters.  As  counterfeiters, 
yeggs,  murderers,  and  the  like  is  about  the  only  human 
bein's  in  this  wide,  wide  world  which  is  tellin'  the  truth 
when  they  claim  they  don't  like  publicity,  I  says  to  send 
the  boys  right  up.  When  I  opened  the  door  to  let  'em 
in  a  few  minutes  later,  I  couldn't  blame  the  Kid  for 
givin'  vent  to  a  gasp  of  surprise.  It  looked  more  like 
we  was  going  to  be  raided  instead  of  interviewed! 
They  was  about  fifteen  young  men  filed  into  the  room, 
and  although  I  knew  all  the  sport  writers  of  the  New 
York  papers,  these  babies  was  strangers  to  me.  A  tall 
thin  one  coughs  and  says  to  me : 

"Eh — I'm  with  the  'Post' — eh — did  you  give  an  inter 
view  to  the  Newark  'Evening  Yell'  the  other  day  ?" 

"Sure !"  I  grins.  "I  told  the  story  of  the  Kid's  life 
to  a  young  lady  by  the  name  of  Miss  Stillwell,  which 
wanted  the  same  for  the  sportin'  page." 

"For  the  sporting  page,  eh?"  says  the  reporter, 
lookin'  around  at  the  other  guys,  some  of  which  laughs 
out  loud.  "Clever  girl !"  he  goes  on,  facin'  me  again. 
"She's  losing  time  in  Newark — that's  a  cinch!" 

The  Kid  frowns,  and  I  took  a  step  toward  this  guy. 

"Mister  Roberts — eh — pardon  me,  Mister  Halliday 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     323 

— "  says  the  reporter,  "how  long  has  Senator  Brewster 
been  a  business  partner  of  your  father's,  and  is  it  true 
that  the  senator — eh — bought  your  father's  seat  on  the 
Stock  Exchange?" 

Wow! 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about?"  busts  out 
the  Kid,  his  face  gettin'  red.  "You  had  better  put 
your  questions  in  less  offensive  language,  young  man, 
or — I  say,  what's  the  idea  of  all  this,  anyhow?" 

The  reporter  grins  and  takes  a  folded  newspaper 
from  his  pocket  and  hands  it  to  the  Kid.  "Of  course," 
he  says  smoothly,  "you  know  that  the  Newark  'Evening 
Yell'  is  a  party  organ  in  this  neck  of  the  woods,  and, 
naturally,  your — eh — this  rather  amazing  disclosure  re 
garding  Senator  Brewster  that  you  made  to  a  member 
of  its  staff  was  a  wonderful  political  weapon  for  them." 

But  the  Kid,  glancin'  nervously  over  the  newspaper, 
has  suddenly  let  out  a  muttered,  gaspin'  cuss,  and  spread 
the  paper  out  so's  I  could  see  it.  Right  smack  on  page 
1  is  a  headline  as  big  as  Chicago : 

SAYS  BREWSTER  BACKS  WALL  STREET  WIZARD 


Evening   Yell    Gets    Exclusive    Story   of    New   York 
Senator's  Connection  with  J.  A.  Halliday. 


Speculator's      Son,      "Kid      Roberts,"      Heavyweight 

Champion,     Admits     Facts — To     Wed 

Senator's     Daughter ! 

Well  I  just  flopped  in  a  chair  and  watched  the  room 
go  round  and  round.    So  Joan  had  doubled-crossed  us ! 


324          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

She'd  pumped  me  dry — took  everything  I  told  her  and 
twisted  it  around  till  it  meant  a  darn  sight  more  than 
was  actually  true.  And  here  this  other  reporter  had 
just  tricked  me  into  admittin'  this  was  all  facts!  Can 
you  picture  what  that  article  was  goin'  to  do  to  the  old 
senator,  practically  on  the  eve  of  election  ?  I  knew  then 
how  Samson  felt  when  Delilah  give  him  that  haircut! 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  regarding  this  article,"  the 
Kid  is  tellin'  the  reporters,  edgin'  them  over  to  the 
door,  "except  that  it  is  a  vicious  mass  of  distorted 
facts  and  lying  insinuations!  I  have  no  doubt  that 
both  my  father  and  Senator  Brewster  will  have  a  state 
ment  to  make  later.  Good  morning,  gentlemen !" 

"Fair  enough!"  says  the  thin  guy,  steppin'  to  the 
door. 

"Is  it  true  that  you're  engaged  to  Miss  Brewster?" 
pipes  up  another  one. 

"None  of  your  damned  business !"  barks  the  Kid, 
now  on  edge. 

Nobody  was  slow  gettin'  through  the  door. 

At  that  minute  the  phone  rings,  and  the  Kid,  bein' 
nearest,  answered.  It  was  no  less  than  Senator  Brew 
ster  himself,  and  from  the  Kid's  face  and  his  chokiri' 
interruptions,  I  could  see  the  boy  was  takin'  punish 
ment  !  At  last  he  hangs  up  and  turns  to  me,  f rownin' 
and  bitin'  his  lip.  I  am  all  set  for  the  bawlin'  out  of 
my  life. 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  tie  into  me,  Kid,"  I  says  gloom 
ily.  "I'm  the  dumb-bell  which  spilled  the  limas,  and — " 

"No,"  says  the  Kid,  his  face  clearin'.  "It  wasn't 
your  fault  at  all.  You  didn't  fathom  the  girl's 
shrewdness,  and  I  wouldn't  have  either.  We've  both 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     325 

already  talked  too  much  to  a  very  clever  reporter! 
Cloaking  her  real  purpose  under  the  request  for  an 
interview  for  the  sporting  page,  our  friend  Joan  Still- 
well  scored  a  notable  victory  for  the  senator's  enemies. 
According  to  her  rather  peculiar  lights,  I  suppose  she 
did  a  good  job !"  He  pats  my  shoulder.  "Cheer  up," 
he  adds ;  "it  can't  be  helped  now.  For  your  sake  as  well 
as  the  senator's,  I'm  sorry  she  bilked  us — you  were 
rather  hard  hit,  weren't  you?" 

"I  fell— sure !"  I  admits.  "But  that's  all  over  now. 
I  guess  that  stuff  about  her  kid  brother  bein'  a  scrapper 
was  the  bunk  too — hey  ?" 

"Probably,"  says  the  Kid  with  a  hard,  short  laugh. 
"Though  that  was  a  touch  that  approached  art !  We'll 
never  see  her  again,  at  any  rate.  I'll  wager  she's 
laughing  herself  sick  right  now  at  the  way  she  took 
us  in !" 

But  we  did  see  her  again,  and  she  wasn't  laughin' 
either. 

We  was  gettin'  ready  to  go  down  and  put  on  the 
feed  bag,  when  once  again  the  phone  makes  good  and 
again  the  Kid  answers  it.  This  time  he  says :  "Come 
right  up!"  in  a  funny  voice,  hangs  up,  and  turns  to 
me  with  a  smile.  "Stand  a  slight  shock?"  he  says. 

"Now  what  the — eh — what's  the  matter?"  I  hollers, 
jumpin'  up.  "Who  was  that  ?" 

"Miss  Joan  Stillwell,"  answers  the  Kid. 

Then  there's  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  I  flung  it 
wide  open  with  a  snarl.  Joan  was  there  all  right  and. 
sore  as  I  was — I  was  more  hurt  than  mad,  anyways — 
I  noticed  she  was  as  bewilderin'  as  ever!  She's  been 


326          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

doin'  a  piece  of  weepin'  also,  as  I  seen  when  she  raised 
her  veil  and  stepped  kind  of  hesitatin'ly  inside.  Kid 
Roberts  pulls  over  a  chair  for  her  with  a  stiff  bow — 
mad  or  otherwise,  the  boy  was  always  a  gent. 

"Well,"  I  sneers,  standin'  beside  her  chair,  "what 
are  you  figurin'  on  puttin'  over  now,  hey?" 

With  that  she  buries  her  billion-dollar  face  in  her 
hands  and  busts  right  out  cryin'! 

This  was  all  different,  and  me  and  the  Kid  looks  at 
each  other  in  the  greatest  of  surprise.  The  first  thing 
I  know  I  am  pattin'  a  silk-clad  shoulder  and  whisperin' 
sweet  nothin's  at  where  I  guessed  her  ear  was,  and  on 
the  other  side  Kid  Roberts  is  doin'  ditto.  A  couple 
of  fine,  strong  men,  hey? 

"I  suppose  you — you  loathe  me!"  says  Joan  to  me 
with  quiverin'  lips. 

"Do  I  look  it  ?"  I  says  kind  of  sadly.  The  Kid  smiles 
sarcastically,  and  this  seems  to  get  her  goat. 

"Won't  both  of  you  at  least  listen  to  an  explanation?" 
she  asks.  "You  don't  have  to  believe  it,  you  know." 

"No,"  says  the  Kid,  still  smilin'  politely  but  coldly, 
"we  don't  have  to  believe  it.  Eh — proceed,  Miss  Still- 
well;  I'm  sure  you  will  be  interesting." 

Her  face  floods  with  red  at  that,  but  she  was  game ! 
Me — I'm  completely  gone  again!  I  even  managed  to 
slip  her  a  encouragin'  look,  and  got  a  glance  in  ex 
change  for  it  that  repaid  me  with  usurious  interest. 

"I  want  you  to  know  that  I  was  innocent  of  any 
malicious  intent  when  I  got  that  interview  from  you," 
she  says,  the  words  just  tumblin'  out.  "I  was  not 
trying  to  be  cunning  or  clever  or — or — anything!  I 
wrote  that  interview  as  a  straight  sporting  story,  putting 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     327 

no  value  on  the — the — political  weapons  you  acciden 
tally  placed  in  my  hands,  beyond  the  fact  that  they  lent 
color  and  romance  to  my  yarn.  But  the  sporting  edi 
tor,  with  his  horrid  trained  nose  for  news,  sniffed  out 
my  story's  news  value  and  gave  it  to  the  city  editor. 
With  the  aid  of  a  rewrite  man  and  the  staff  political 
writers,  he  did  the  rest !  They  showed  me  the  proofs 
of  my  rehashed  copy,  and  I  stormed  and  pleaded  to 
have  it  kept  out  of  the  paper,  without  avail.  Why, 
that  man  actually  patted  me  on  the  back  and  promised 
me  a  bonus  for  what  he  said  was  a  shrewd  piece  of 
work  on  my  part.  I  am  not  shrewd!  I  didn't  mean 
to  be — I — I  hate  that  word — I — well,  I  immediately 
resigned,  that's  all !  And  now — " 

The  Kid  reaches  for  his  hat.  "And  now,"  he  repeats 
after  her,  "will  you  come  with  me  and  tell  all  that  to 
Senator  Brewster,  Miss  Stillwell?  It  will  help  every 
one  of  us  immensely  if  you  will,  and  I,  for  one,  believe 
your  story  without  question." 

"Why,  I'll  be  only  too  glad  to  explain  to  the  Senator," 
says  Joan.  "Of  course  I'll  go." 

"Just  a  minute,  Miss  Stillwell.  Was  that  stuff  about 
your  brother  bein'  a  box  fighter — eh — was  that  level 
too?"  I  butts  in. 

"He's  going  to  box  at  the  Aldine  Athletic  Club  to 
night,"  she  says.  "But  I  suppose  now  you  won't  bother 
to—" 

"You  suppose  wrong,"  I  says.  "I'll  go  over  and  see 
him,  as  advertised.  And  don't  you  let  Senator  Brew 
ster  bawl  you  out  either.  We're  all  apt  to  make  mis 
takes,  as  Eve  remarked." 

Well,  that  night,  as  they  say  in  the  movies,  I  eased 


328          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

into  a  ringside  seat  at  the  Aldine  A.  C.  in  Newark  at 
exactly  9.30,  and  at  exactly  9.33  Joan's  brother,  "Young 
Stillwell,"  climbed  through  the  ropes  to  earn  the  fifty 
bucks  he  was  guaranteed  for  a  six-round  preliminary 
with  another  boloney.  At  exactly  9.50  I  had  what  I 
firmly  believed  to  be  the  next  lightweight  champion 
signed  to  a  contract  puttin'  him  under  my  management 
for  a  term  of  three  years,  subject  to  sister  Joan's 
approval.  There  is  nothin'  I  like  so  much  as  speed ! 

The  "lightweight"  in  the  opposite  corner  from  Young 
Stillwell  must  of  tipped  the  beam  at  150  if  he  weighed 
a  gram,  whilst  Joan's  kid  brother  looked  well  under 
135.  He  was  far  from  handsome,  accordin'  to  collar 
advertisement  standards,  but  he  sure  looked  beautiful  to 
me!  This  baby  had  a  pair  of  shoulders  on  him  like  a 
heavyweight,  the  short,  thick  neck,  square  jaw,  high 
cheek  bones,  thin  lips,  and  beetlin',  rugged  brow  of  the 
natural-born  fighter  which  craves  no  other  weapons  but 
his  hands.  His  legs  was  the  muscular  limbs  of  the 
distance  runner  and  as  he  flexed  himself  against  the 
ropes  whilst  awaitin'  the  bell,  his  powerful  arms  showed 
a  wonderful  reach.  That  the  mob  was  with  him  was 
displayed  when  he  first  jumped  into  the  ring  and  shed 
his  bath  robe.  The  first  time  he  looked  at  the  guy  he 
was  goin'  to  fight  was  when  they  shook  hands  in  mid 
ring  and  went  to  work. 

It  was  a  wow  of  a  brawl  whilst  it  lasted,  but  a  minute 
ain't  very  long.  Never  in  your  life  have  you  seen  such 
a  change  as  come  over  Young  Stillwell  with  the  sound 
of  the  bell.  The  grin  left  his  thin  lips  like  magic,  and 
he  licked  'em  hungrily  with  the  snarl  of  a  short- 
tempered  panther.  The  heavy  brows  drawed  together, 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     329 

almost  meetin'  in  a  curvin',  shaggy  line  as  he  shot  off 
that  stool  like  he'd  been  released  with  a  spring.  The 
other  guy  was  tough  and  willin',  but  that  wasn't  enough. 
Stillwell  hit  him  with  everything  but  the  club's  license 
and  the  timekeeper,  floorin'  his  man  three  times  before 
the  referee  declared  a  armistice.  His  handlers  dragged 
him  to  his  corner,  still  lookin'  back  at  what  he  left  on 
the  floor  and  still  snarlin'.  Joan's  bloodcurdlin'  brother 
wasn't  satisfied  with  just  a  win — he  wanted  to  finish 
his  man.  That  baby  was  a  fightin'  fool ! 

Well,  Young  Stillwell  liked  to  passed  away  when 
the  club  matchmaker  banged  on  his  dressin'-room  door 
and  told  him  that  the  manager  of  the  world's  heavy 
weight  champion  wished  a  word  with  him.  This 
man-eatin'  tiger  was  so  timid  that  he  couldn't 
speak. 

I  was  already  plannin'  how  I'd  ease  him  along,  teach 
him  to  hit  from  the  shoulder,  and  knock  'em  stiff  with 
one  wallop,  instead  of  beatin'  'em  down  slowly  with  a 
hundred  pulled  from  the  ankle. 

He  nearly  went  cuckoo  with  joy  when  I  told  him  he 
would  get  a  chance  to  help  condition  Kid  Roberts  for 
his  comin'  championship  battle  with  Knockout  Pierce, 
as  part  of  his  own  trainin',  and  I  could  of  signed  him 
to  a  agreement  right  then  and  there  givin'  me  90  per 
cent  of  his  earnin's.  But  I  give  Young  Stillwell  a  fair 
contract — in  fact,  what  many's  the  pilot  would  call  .1 
sucker  contract,  with  me  the  sucker. 

Within  the  week  Jimmy  McManus,  the  fight  pro 
moter,  called  me  and  Knockout  Pierce's  manager  into 
a  conference,  with  the  results  that  the  date  for  the  big 
quarrel  was  fin'ly  set  for  two  months  later.  Knock- 


330          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

out  Pierce  wanted  to  make  it  the  same  day,  but  ten 
years  from  then  would  of  hit  me  better ! 

I  rounded  up  Kid  Roberts  and  told  him  to  cancel  all 
games  he  had  scheduled  with  Dolores  and  Senator 
Brewster,  because  he  was  goin'  to  hit  for  the  Maine 
woods  immediately  to  ready  up  for  Knockout  Pierce. 
Before  I  was  half  ways  through  he  shut  me  off  and  be 
gin  to  rave  about  the  palace  he  had  built  on  Long  Island 
for  him  and  Dolores.  The  last  brick  had  just  been 
laid  a  few  days  before,  and  nothin'  would  do  but  I  must 
come  right  down  with  him  and  look  it  over.  He  was 
like  a  baby  with  a  new  toy,  and  bubbled  away  about 
the  "blue  room"  and  the  "red  room"  and  the  gardens 
and  this  and  that.  He  was  less  interested  in  the  date 
of  his  fight  with  Knockout  Pierce  than  a  shark  is  inter 
ested  in  the  price  of  ice  skates.  Before  I  realize  it  I 
am  huddled  beside  him  in  his  racin'  car,  burnin'  the 
roads  to  Long  Island. 

Well,  there  is  no  use  of  me  describin'  the  Kid's 
domicile,  because  that  would  make  a  serial  itself. 
They  seemed  to  be  upward  of  a  million  rooms  in  it — 
rooms  full  of  rugs  which  you  sunk  in  up  to  your  knees, 
and  furniture  which  would  of  brought  a  pleased  grin 
from  Midas.  They  was  a  large,  private  swimmin' 
pool  lookin'  like  pictures  of  the  old  Roman  baths,  a 
fully  equipped  gymnasium  with  a  regulation  ring  and 
the  etc.,  a  ballroom  that — exercise  your  own  imagina 
tion,  boys  and  girls,  on  the  rest  of  the  layout,  and  the 
wilder  you  guess  the  nearer  you'll  come ! 

Fin'ly  we  come  to  two  big  rooms  joined  together  and 
openin'  into  a  bathroom  as  big  as  the  average  flat. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     331 

There  was  a  elegant  view  of  the  Sound  from  the  win 
dows,  and  it  looked  to  me  like  there  was  every  modern 
convenience  in  it  with  the  exception  of  a  airplane  and 
maybe  a  private  theater. 

"A  dude  of  a  cave,  Kid,"  I  says  admirin'ly. 
"Why—" 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  he  butts  in,  throwin'  his  arm 
around  my  shoulders,  "because — it's  yours!" 

Sweet  Mamma!     Can  you  imagine  that? 

Well,  I  don't  know  when  I  got  the  kick  out  of  life 
like  I  did  when  Kid  Roberts  made  that  simple  remark. 
In  spite  of  the  difference  in  our  pedigrees  and  that  it 
was  only  a  accident  which  ever  throwed  us  together  at 
all,  he  was  with  me  right  to  the  end !  He  wanted  me 
to  come  and  live  in  his  house  with  him,  just  like  one 
of  the  family,  and  he  must  of  knowed  as  7  did  that 
Dolores,  which  would  be  havin'  the  place  filled  with 
her  society  friends,  would  holler  murder  at  the  idea  of 
a  roughneck  like  me  bein'  a  permanent  ornament  about 
the  house.  Yet  for  me  the  Kid  was  willin'  to  risk  a 
jam  with  her.  But  I  wasn't  willin'  to  let  him.  I  didn't 
want  nothin'  to  come  up  which  would  start  the  faintest 
argument  on  my  account,  so  after  I  thanked  the  Kid 
all  over  the  place  I  explained  to  him  that  I'd  be  out 
of  order  there,  or,  at  least,  that  I'd  feel  that  way,  and 
besides,  I  couldn't  get  out  ef  the  fight  game  with  the 
ease  that  he  was  goin'  to,  because  box  fightin'  is  the 
only  game  I  know.  He  broke  in  on  me  many  times, 
tellin'  me  he'd  take  me  in  partnership  with  him  and  his 
dad,  but  I  couldn't  see  that  part  of  it  either.  Where 
in  the  Hades  would  I  fit  in  Wall  Street  and  society? 
Even  whilst  the  Kid  argued  with  me,  my  mind  was 


332  THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

wanderin'.  Wanderin'  back  to  Young  Stillwell,  which 
I  was  goin'  to  make  lightweight  champion  of  the  world 
as  sure  as  the  ocean  is  damp  and  just  as  I  made  Kid 
Roberts  king  of  the  heavies.  Kid  Roberts  was  through 
after  his  fight  with  Knockout  Pierce,  but  I  had  to  con 
tinue  on  at  the  trade  I  was  born  to — and  king  maker 
ain't  so  bad  a  trade  at  that !  You  see,  the  story  of  Kid 
Roberts  represents  practically  his  whole  career,  but  it's 
just  a  chapter  in  my  life.  Just  a  chapter ! 

I  told  the  Kid  about  Young  Stillwell  and  what  I 
hoped  to  do  with  him,  and  when  he  seen  it  was  no  use 
to  argue  further  he  grinned  and  wished  me  luck,  partic 
ularly  in  convincin'  Joan  that  a  box  fighter  ain't 
necessarily  a  bum.  Well,  on  that  point  I  had  hopes, 
because  I  had  managed  to  make  the  girl  agree  to  see 
her  brother  box  once,  and  I  promised  to  tear  up  my 
contract  with  the  boy  if  she  asked  me  to  after  that. 
This  come  about  in  a  odd  way.  There  was  what  the 
Kid  would  call  a  incident  happened  which  give  me  the 
delightful  sensations  of  bein'  a  hero  for  a  spell. 

Havin'  convinced  Senator  Brewster  that  she  hadn't 
double-crossed  us  with  that  article  in  the  Newark 
"Evenin'  Yell,"  Joan  was  on  one  of  Dolores'  commit 
tees,  campaignin'  with  her  for  the  female  vote.  The  sen 
ator's  campaignin'  manager,  Mike  Henderson,  a  wise 
old  bird  and  a  veteran  at  political  tricks,  took  the  angle 
that  Joan's  story  in  the  Newark  paper,  which  had  been 
reprinted  in  New  York,  would  do  the  senator  more 
good  than  harm.  He  claimed  the  broadcast  publication 
of  the  fact  that  his  daughter  was  goin'  to  marry  a  box 
fighter  would  make  a  unqualified  hit  with  the  rough 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     333 

and  readys,  whilst  the  hint  of  his  Wall  Street  connec 
tions,  even  though  exaggerated,  would  do  him  no  harm 
with  that  type  of  vote.  Altogether,  Big  Mike  was  well 
pleased  and  had  congratulated  Joan  in  the  Senator's 
office,  prob'ly  fallin'  under  the  spell  of  them  eyes  him 
self.  Joan  would  of  gave  a  mummy  a  thrill!  Senator 
Brewster,  whilst  not  as  enthusiastic  as  Henderson,  had 
forgave  Joan  and  was  undoubtlessly  interested  in  her. 

But,  anyways,  Joan  was  speakin'  from  the  back  of 
a  auto  down  on  Tenth  Avenue  one  night,  with  me  and 
her  brother  along  as  bodyguards.  We  was  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  guy's  territory  which  was  runnin'  against 
Senator  Brewster,  and  there  was  some  tough-lookin' 
babies  gathered  around  the  bus.  The  whole  thing 
didn't  take  fifteen  minutes,  but  that  was  long  enough 
to  close  my  right  eye  tighter  than  a  drum  and  loosen 
a  few  odd  teeth.  Somebody  made  a  insultin'  crack, 
and  Young  Stillwell  goes  over  the  side  of  the  car  in 
one  leap,  both  hands  pumpin'  fast.  Joan  let  forth  a 
shriek,  and  a  guy  jumpin'  on  the  runnin'  board  copped 
the  chauffeur  on  the  jaw. 

I  flattened  that  baby  with  a  chop  on  the  side  of  the 
head,  and  then  I  figured  that  if  Young  Stillwell  got 
badly  hurt  I  would  be  out  one  comin'  champion, 
whereas  if  I  got  beat  up  it  wouldn't  mean  nothin'. 
Havin'  got  that  settled  I  jumped  into  the  strugglin' 
mass  around  the  car,  layin'  about  me  right  merrily,  as 
the  sayin'  is.  I  ain't  much  of  a  gymnasium  boxer  my 
self,  but  if  I  do  say  it  I  fight  a  mean  street  brawl ! 
There  was  two  guys  workin'  on  Stillwell,  and  I  yanked 
him  in  back  of  me,  pushin'  him  into  the  car  whilst  I 
buried  my  knee  in  the  stomach  of  one  of  'em  and,  with- 


334          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

out  losin'  position,  socked  the  other  one  stiff  with  a 
right  uppercut  that  not  even  Kid  Roberts  would  of  had 
to  apologize  for.  The  chauffeur  had  come  to  life  by 
this  time  and  started  the  motor,  and  after  I  have  dis 
tributed  a  few  more  clouts  where  they  would  do  the 
most  good  and — eh — stopped  a  few  myself,  I  managed 
to  jump  back  into  the  car  again  and  we  shot  away,  and 
that's  all  there  was  to  that. 

Joan  wiped  my  face  off  with  her  handerchief  and 
made  a  heavy  fuss  over  me  for  "rescuin"  her,  as  she 
put  it,  whereas,  to  be  frank  with  you,  the  main  thing 
I  was  thinkin'  of  when  I  went  over  the  top  of  that 
auto  was  that  under  no  circumstances  did  I  want  my 
comin'  champ  beat  up! 

Well,  I  couldn't  get  Kid  Roberts  to  come  away 
from  New  York  and  Dolores,  although  four  times  we 
split  up  for  good  as  a  result  of  arguments  over  his 
ideas  of  trainin'  for  a  championship  fight.  The  best 
he  would  do  was  some  mechanical  boxin'  and  weight 
pullin'  a  few  hours  a  day.  There  was  times  when  I 
didn't  even  see  him  for  days,  and  that's  the  way  the 
two  months  went  by  till  the  day  of  the  battle  with 
Knockout  Pierce  and  the  last  appearance  in  the  ring 
of  Kid  Roberts. 

I  had  Joan's  brother  set  for  one  of  the  prelimin 
aries.  He  was  to  go  six  rounds  with  "Shifty"  Mullen 
— a  tough  boy — and  I  demanded  and  got  $500  for 
him,  more  money  than  Young  Stillwell  had  ever  seen 
before  in  his  life.  As  she  promised,  Joan  was  there 
beside  me  at  the  ringside,  white- faced  and  tremblin', 
braced  to  see  a  bloody  slaughter.  The  absence  of  his 
usual  reception  from  the  bigger,  noisier,  and  nastier 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     335 

mob,  the  presence  of  his  sister  seein'  him  start  for 
the  first  time,  and  the  sullen  glare  across  the  ring  of 
the  rugged,  experienced  Shifty  Mullen,  all  bothered 
this  young  wildcat  the  same  way  they  are  bothered  in 
Iceland  over  the  price  of  electric  fans.  Fightin' 
was  Young  Stillwell's  gift — his  trick!  He  touched 
gloves  with  Mullen,  danced  back  till  he  felt  the  ropes 
against  his  skin,  and  then  bounded  off  'em  like  a 
maniac — nothin'  else.  The  hard-boiled  Mullen  clipped 
him  on  the  chin  with  a  terrible  right  as  he  was  comin'  in, 
and  then  stepped  away  to  let  him  fall.  Young  Still  well 
grinned  over  to  Joan  and  went  to  work  on  the  body  with 
both  hands.  Mullen  tried  everything  he  knew,  but  it 
was  a  waste  of  time.  In  two  and  a  half  minutes  Young 
Stillwell  had  battered  him  to  the  canvas,  where  he  was 
only  too  glad  to  stay — all  through. 

The  boy  got  a  big  hand  leavin'  the  ring,  and  Joan, 
her  eyes  sparklin',  led  the  cheering.  Her  brother  was 
back  from  the  dressin'  room  in  no  time,  unmarked,  un 
ruffled,  and  grinnin'  his  head  off.  I  pulled  him  aside 
and  slipped  him  the  whole  five  hundred  berries.  I  didn't 
take  a  nickel  from  the  boy — the  purse  was  too  small, 
and  then,  again,  I  knowed  I'd  get  mine  later.  He 
dumps  the  bills  into  Joan's  lap  and  shouts  that  I've 
guaranteed  him  twenty  thousand  the  next  year.  They 
was  still  excitedly  chatterin'  away  to  each  other  as 
Young  Stillwell  led  her  down  the  aisle  and  out,  and  a 
blind  man  could  see  Joan  was  a  convert. 

But  Kid  Roberts's  fight — his  last  battle — was  all  dif 
ferent,  and  I  was  mighty  glad  that  Joan  had  left  the 
abattoir  and  that  Dolores  had  kept  away.  Up  against 
a  remarkably  clever,  two-handed  hitter,  which  had  the 


336          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

priceless  advantage  of  youth,  perfect  condition,  reach, 
and  about  twelve  pounds  in  weight,  the  champion  fought 
a  losin'  fight  almost  from  the  first  bell.  The  old 
stamina  wasn't  there,  the  old  perfect  timin'  of  punches 
was  gone,  the  once  terrible  right  hook  had  lost  its 
kick. 

Too  much  confidence,  too  much  easy  livin',  chasin' 
around  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  makin' 
speeches  for  Senator  Brewster,  and  the  most  fatal — 
holdin'  Knockout  Pierce  too  cheaply — told  the  story. 
With  everything  missin'  but  his  heart,  Kid  Roberts 
fought  eleven  bloody,  desperate  rounds  on  that  alone 
before  goin'  out  like  the  champ  of  champs  he  was !  He 
didn't  need  to  make  no  apologies  as  he  staggered  down 
the  aisle  to  his  dressin'  room  after  it  was  all  over,  be 
tween  rows  of  guys  which  had  gone  crazy  cheerin'  him, 
and  still  kept  on  cheerin'  him,  ignorin'  the  flushed  and 
pantin'  new  champion  till  they  had  give  the  Kid  his 
due.  That  must  of  helped  a  little,  hey? 

Nobody  amongst  the  odd  30,000  screamin'  maniacs 
which  seen  Kid  Roberts  go  down  before  Knockout 
Pierce  sat  on  a  chair  from  the  first  round  to  the  finish — 
nobody  could  speak  above  a  whisper  for  days  after 
ward.  At  the  very  beginnin'  there  was  enough  sensa 
tion  to  satisfy  Nero!  After  some  light  sparrin',  the 
Kid  led  with  his  left,  but  was  short  and  got  a  crack  on 
the  nose  in  return  that  brought  the  blood  and  a  yell  from 
Pierce's  friends  of  "How  d'ye  like  him,  Roberts?" 
Again  the  Kid  tried  his  left,  and  this  time  landed  solidly 
on  the  mouth,  but  Pierce  shook  his  head  and  drove  a 
wicked  right  to  the  wind  and  a  left  to  the  heart,  showin' 
he  had  been  tipped  on  the  Kid's  poor  condition,  and  was 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     337 

instructed  to  work  on  the  body.  They  exchanged  light 
jabs  in  Pierce's  corner,  and,  in  dancin'  away,  Pierce 
slipped  to  the  floor.  Kid  Roberts  instantly  stooped 
and  helped  him  up,  gettin'  a  big  hand  from  the  crowd 
and  a  shake  from  Pierce,  who  then  suddenly  ripped 
another  right  to  the  heart.  The  Kid's  face  paled  and 
down  come  his  guard.  Warn !  Like  a  flash  Pierce  had 
hooked  his  left  to  the  jaw,  and  the  champ  sprawled  on 
his  back  whilst  the  house  was  in  a  wild  uproar. 

Roberts  was  up  at  "seven,"  groggy  but  full  of  fight. 
He  tried  to  rush  Pierce,  but  this  guy  stepped  coolly 
aside  and  floored  the  Kid  again  with  a  right  chop  to 
the  side  of  the  head.  The  Kid  got  to  his  hands  and 
knees,  pulled  himself  erect  by  the  ropes,  and,  only 
waitin'  till  he  straightened  up  with  his  arms  danglin' 
helplessly,  Pierce  shot  over  two  more  hard  rights, 
crashin'  him  again  to  the  mat. 

By  this  time  the  mob  was  tearin'  up  the  seats,  and  I 
had  bit  entirely  through  my  lower  lip.  The  champion 
just  beat  the  count  by  a  eyelash,  got  up  reelin',  but  had 
generalship  enough  left  to  fold  his  arms  over  his  head 
and  dive  into  a  clinch.  Pierce,  strong  as  a  young  bull, 
shook  him  off,  however,  and  was  measurin'  him  for  the 
finisher  when  the  bell  rang.  Knockout  Pierce  run  to  his 
corner,  wavin'  his  gloves  at  the  crazy  mob.  The  Kid 
sagged  over  against  the  ropes  and  would  of  fell  through 
'em  if  I  hadn't  grabbed  him.  His  eyes  was  starin' 
vacantly  at  nothin'. 

Well,  a  round-by-round  account  of  this  battle  would 
not  be  pretty,  and  it  brings  back  no  fond  memories  to 
me,  except  to  remind  me  of  a  exhibition  of  courage 
which  has  been  seldom  equaled  and  never  surpassed  in 


338          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

the  history  of  a  game  where  courage  is  the  first  require 
ment.  From  that  heartbreakin'  first  round  on,  the 
Kid  was  on  Queer  Street,  battlin'  without  a  chance 
and  battlin'  on  the  pure  fightin'  instinct  which  must 
of  been  bred  into  him  by  centuries  of  thoroughbred 
stock. 

In  the  fourth  round  Knockout  Pierce  devoted  all  his 
attention  to  the  Kid's  reddened  body,  and  one  of  the 
champion's  ribs,  busted  a  year  before  by  Dynamite  Jack 
son,  cracked  again  under  the  bombardment,  changin' 
the  Kid's  complexion  to  a  sickly  gray  with  pain  from 
then  on.  In  Round  Seven,  Pierce  closed  the  Kid's 
right  eye  tight,  and  in  the  ninth  shut  the  other.  Blinded, 
unable  even  to  see  where  his  punches  was  goin',  the 
Kid  wouldn't  let  me  throw  in  the  sponge,  but  stood  up 
to  his  beatin'  like  somethin'  even  higher  than  a  cham 
pion — if  there  is  any  such  thing!  Even  the  guys  which 
had  bet  on  Pierce  was  tearin'  the  air  now  with  their 
cheers  for  Kid  Roberts — or  maybe  their  cheers  was 
not  so  much  for  the  battered,  grimly  pawin'  Kid  as  they 
was  for  the  fightin'  heart  which  kept  his  tremblin' 
body  erect.  Man,  pan  the  fight  game  all  you  want — 
call  it  brutal,  disgustin',  crooked,  sordid,  anything 
you  please,  but  don't  say  you  can't  get  a  kick  out 
of  it! 

In  the  tenth  round  Kid  Roberts  made  a  dyin'  rally 
that  panicked  the  already  hysterical  mob.  Findin' 
Pierce,  by  instinct  alone  it  must  of  been,  he  split  his 
nose  with  a  straight  left  and  drove  him  to  cover  against 
the  ropes  with  a  desperate  flurry  of  hooks  and  swings. 
But  that  was  the  last.  Nature  was  beginnin'  to  reach 
for  the  sponge  now!  Yet  this  big  stiff  Pierce,  his 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     339 

own  heart  broke  by  the  Kid's  superhuman  exhibition 
of  gameness,  seemed  unable  to  land  the  finishin'  blow — 
the  clean  knockout  which  would  of  wound  it  up  merci 
fully.  I  cursed  that  guy  for  a  tramp  till  the  referee 
warned  me,  as  he  cut  and  slashed  wildly  at  the  swayin', 
blinded  champ,  every  blow  that  socked  against  that  boy 
bein'  a  knife  in  my  own  poundin'  heart. 

Then,  in  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  round,  I  couldn't 
stand  it  no  longer!  Kid  Roberts,  holdin'  himself  up 
with  one  arm  on  the  ropes  was  feebly  tryin'  to  protect 
himself  with  the  other  from  a  hurricane  of  rights  and 
lefts  to  the  head.  Pierce  was  too  excited  at  the  pros 
pects  of  a  knockout  to  stand  off  and  measure  him,  but 
was  batterin'  him  to  pieces  with  short,  choppy  blows. 
With  tears  that  I  ain't  ashamed  of  streamin'  down  my 
face,  I  jumped  through  the  ropes,  pushed  past  the 
referee  in  between  'em  and  caught  the  Kid  in  my  arms, 
shovin'  my  face  into  Pierce's  and  yellin'  in  a  voice  that 
I  didn't  recognize:  "Leave  him  alone,  you  big  stiff. 
You'll  make  a  fine  champ,  you  will !  You're  a  hell  of  a 
finisher — you  can't  knock  a  dyin'  man  stiff!" 

Then  half  the  crowd  was  in  the  ring  with  me,  and 
Knockout  Pierce  stood  alone,  whilst  the  mob  fought 
to  shake  the  hand  of  the  loser. 

For  many's  the  week  afterward  the  sport  writers 
panned  me  to  a  fare-thee-well,  arguin'  that  I  lost  Kid 
Roberts  the  title  by  committin'  the  foul  of  jumpin'  into 
the  ring.  They  claimed  the  Kid  might  of  come  back — 
that  with  his  heart  he  always  had  a  chance  while  he  was 
in  there.  Well,  boys  and  girls,  that's  what  I  jumped 
in  for.  I  wanted  them  babies  to  think  just  that!  It 
was  about  the  last  thing  I  could  do  for  Kid  Roberts, 


340          THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS 

anyways.  The  boy  was  licked,  as  they  all  have  to  be 
some  time.  Why  should  I  let  that  big  stiff  cut  him  to 
pieces?  I  made  him  lose  on  a  foul  and  saved  him  at 
least  the  disgrace  a  champ  never  forgets — bein'  knocked 
stiff! 

Well,  that's  about  all.  Senator  Brewster  was  re- 
elected;  I  don't  remember  by  how  much  majority,  but 
if  it  was  one  it  was  enough,  hey?  He  presented  Joan 
with  a  job  as  his  private  secretary  and  Dolores  with  a 
check  for  $250,000  when  she  married  Kid  Roberts,  or 
Kane  Halliday  again  now,  a  month  after  the  fight.  ! 
had  the  exactin'  portfolio  of  best  man  at  the  weddin'  and 
Joan  was  a  bridesmaid.  It  was  a  very  quiet  affair,  no 
hullabaloo  what  the  so  ever,  and  they  sailed  for  Europe 
right  afterward,  leavin'  the  loneliest  guy  in  the  world 
on  the  dock,  meanin'  me.  I  went  back  to  the  hotel, 
looked  in  the  Kid's  room  which  he  would  never  occupy 
again,  cussed  a  bit,  and  begin  linin'  up  a  campaign 
amongst  the  set-ups  for  Young  Stillwell.  Not  bein' 
able  to  keep  my  mind  on  the  subject,  what  with  all  the 
excitement  and  the  etc.,  I  called  up  Joan  and,  usin'  nerve 
which  I  never  thought  was  in  me,  I  asked  her  could  I 
take  her  to  dinner  and  then  maybe  to  a  show.  She  said 
she'd  be  tickled  silly,  which  made  it  two  people  which 
felt  that  way.  I  asked  about  Jimmy,  her  brother,  and 
she  says  he's  fine  and  is  now  goin'  to  bed  at  nine  and 
gettin'  up  at  six  to  do  his  road  work. 

"I  hear  nothing  day  and  night  but  what  a  wonder f  jl 
person  you  are,"  she  says.  "Jimmy  already  looks  upon 
you  as  his  big  brother !" 

"Eh— oh,  he'll  get  over  that,"  I  says,  kind  of  thrilled. 


THE  LEATHER  PUSHERS     341 

"Maybe  he  will,"  says  Joan,  very  soft,  "but  /  won't!" 
A  couple  of  months  later  we  sent  the  Kid  a  cable  to 

Monte  Carlo.    I  would  liked  to  of  seen  his  face  when 

he  read  it. 


THE  END 


A  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  sent 
on  application 


The   Elephant   God 

By 
Gordon  Casserly 

"  There  is  no  elephant  in  fiction  like  Badshah." 

The  Sunday  Express, 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  and  terror  in  the 
primeval  forest." — The  Times, 

"  Badshah  is  most  lovable." 

The  Times  Supplement, 

"  A  yarn  without  a  yawn  in  it." 

The  Sunday  Express, 

"  A  wild  orgy  of  jungle  thrills." — The  Chronicle, 

"  A  wild  romance  of  extraordinary  accounts  of 
elephants  and  jungle." — The  Weekly  Dispatch, 

"  It  is  a  great  and  glorious  yarn,  and  I  mean  to 
read  it  all  over  again." — MR.  JAMES  DOUGLAS  in  The 
Sunday  Express, 

"  The  whole  book  is  delightful.  Major  Dermot, 
the  hero,  is  a  splendid  man.  He  is  a  creation 
worthy  of  Kipling." — The  Church  Family  News, 

"  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more  f  ascina- 
ting."— John  o' London's  Weekly, 


Prairie  Flowers 

By 

James  B.  Hendryx 

Author  of  "The  Texan" 


When  Tex  Ben  ton  said  he'd  do  a  thing,  he 
did  it,  as  readers  of  "  The  Texan  "  will  affirm. 
So  when,  after  a  year  of  drought,  he  an 
nounced  his  purpose  of  going  to  town  to  get 
thoroughly  "  lickered  up,"  unsuspecting  Tim 
ber  City  was  elected  as  the  stage  for  a  most 
thorough  and  sensational  orgy. 

But  neither  Tex  nor  Timber  City  could 
foresee  the  turbulent  chain  of  events  which 
were  to  result  from  his  high,  if  indecorous, 
resolve,  here  set  down — the  wild  tale  of  an 
untamed  West. 

A  well-known  writer,  who  has  served  his 
apprenticeship  in  the  cow  country,  said  the 
other  day,  "  I  like  Hendryx's  stories — they're 
real.  His  boys  are  the  boys  I  used  to  work 
with  and  know.  His  West  is  the  West  I 
learned  to  love." 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


THE  BIG  YEAR 

By  Meade  Minnigerode 

Author  of  "Laughing  House,"  etc. 

You'll  find  "The  Big  Year"  a 
corking  college  story  —  and  then 
some!  The  breath  of  youth  ripples 
through  it.  It's  genuinely  alive  and 
real. 

You'll  love  Jimmie,  the  very 
human  little  newsboy,  and  Curly 
Corliss,  his  football-playing  hero. 
The  echoes  of  Angel  Benson's 
songs  will  linger  long.  And  as  for 
Doris  Ramsdell — well,  the  Senior 
Table  crowd  who  called  her  "the 
free-stone  peach"  were  right!  And 
then  there's  Dandy  Baxter  and 
Sparrow,  and  Champ,  the  bull  pup, 
who  grew  up  and  drank  beer. 
Also,  of  course,  the  Girl  in  the 
Car  who  ran  over  Jimmie  and  — 
well,  you'll  like  her  best  of  all. 

New  York  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons   London 


Beany,  Gangle=Shanks, 
and  the  Tub 

By 
Edward  Streeter 


This  is  a  Tarkingtonian  sort  of  a  book, 
full  of  humor  and  the  joy  of  life,  about 
boys  and  for  grown-ups.  It  is  un 
necessary  to  introduce  the  author, 
Edward  Streeter,  whose  "Dere  Mable" 
and  other  books  that  relieved  the  ten 
sion  of  wartime  literature  sold  upwards 
of  a  million  copies. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Universny  of  California 


A     000034414     3 


